UC-NRLF 


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ALVMNVS  BOOK  FVND 


fcp  2Uice  -Broom 


THE  ONE-FOOTED  FAIRY  AND  OTHER 
STORIES.  Illustrated. 

JOHN  WINTERBOURNE'S  FAMILY. 

COUNTRY  NEIGHBORS. 

THE  STORY  OF  THYRZA.  With  frontis- 
piece* 

ROSE  MacLEOD.    With  frontispiece. 

THE  COUNTY  ROAD. 

THE  COURT  OF  LOVE. 

PARADISE. 

HIGH  NOON. 

THE  MANNERINGS. 

MARGARET  WARRENER. 

KING'S  END. 

MEADOW  GRASS.  Tales  of  New  England 
Life. 

TIVERTON  TALES. 

BY  OAK  AND  THORN.  A  Record  of  Eng 
lish  Days 

THE  DAY  OF  HIS  YOUTH. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
BOSTON  AND  NEW  YORK 


THE  DAY  OF  HIS 
YOUTH 


BY 

ALICE  BROWN 


BOSTON   AND    NEW   YORK 
HOUGHTON   MIFFLIN   COMPANY 

£l)c  amctsi&c  ptcj&s  Cambri&ge 


COPYRIGHT,  1897 

BY  ALICE  BROWN 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

THE  life  of  Francis  Hume  began  in 
an  old  yet  very  real  tragedy.  His 
mother,  a  lovely  young  woman,  died  at 
the  birth  of  her  child  :  an  event  of  every 
day  significance,  if  you  judge  by  tables  of 
mortality  and  the  probabilities  of  being. 
She  was  the  wife  of  a  man  well-known 
among  honored  American  names,  and  her 
death  made  more  than  the  usual  ripple  of 
nearer  pain  and  wider  condolence.  To  the 
young  husband  it  was  an  afflicting  calam 
ity,  entirely  surprising  even  to  those  who 
were  themselves  acquainted  with  grief. 
He  was  not  merely  rebellious  and  wildly 
distraught,  in  the  way  of  mourners.  He 
sank  into  a  cold  sedateness  of  change. 
His  life  forsook  its  accustomed  channels. 
Vividly  alive  to  the  one  bright  point  still 


393739 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

burning  in  the  past,  toward  the  present 
world  he  seemed  absolutely  benumbed. 
Yet  certain  latent  conceptions  of  the  real 
values  of  existence  must  have  sprung  up 
in  him,  and  protested  against  days  to  be 
thereafter  dominated  by  artificial  re 
straints.  He  had  lost  his  hold  on  life. 
He  had  even  acquired  a  sudden  distaste 
for  it;  but  his  previous  knowledge  of 
beauty  and  perfection  would  not  suffer 
him  to  shut  himself  up  in  a  cell  of  reserve, 
and  isolate  himself  thus  from  his  kind. 
He  could  become  a  hermit,  but  only  under 
the  larger  conditions  of  being.  He  had 
the  firmest  conviction  that  he  could  never 
grow  any  more ;  yet  an  imperative  voice 
within  bade  him  seek  the  highest  out 
look  in  which  growth  is  possible.  He 
had  formed  a  habit  of  beautiful  living, 
though  in  no  sense  a  living  for  any  other 
save  the  dual  soul  now  withdrawn;  and 
he  could  not  be  satisfied  with  lesser 
loves,  the  makeshifts  of  a  barren  life. 
So,  turning  from  the  world,  he  fled  into 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS  YOUTH 

the  woods ;  for  at  that  time  Nature 
seemed  to  him  the  only  great,  and  he  re 
solved  that  Francis,  the  son,  should  be 
nourished  by  her  alone. 

One  spring  day,  when  the  boy  was 
eight  years  old,  his  father  had  said  to 
him :  — 

"We  are  going  into  the  country  to 
sleep  in  a  tent,  catch  our  own  fish,  cook 
it  ourselves,  and  ask  favors  of  no  man." 

"  Camping !  "  cried  the  boy,  in  ecstasy. 

"No;  living." 

The  necessities  of  a  simple  life  were 
got  together,  and  supplemented  by  other 
greater  necessities,  —  books,  pictures,  the 
boy's  violin, — and  they  betook  them 
selves  to  a  spot  where  the  summer  visitor 
was  yet  unknown,  the  shore  of  a  lake 
stretching  a  silver  finger  toward  the  north. 
There  they  lived  all  summer,  shut  off 
from  human  intercourse  save  with  old 
Pierre,  who  brought  their  milk  and  eggs 
and  constituted  their  messenger-in-ordi- 
nary  to  the  village,  ten  miles  away. 
3 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

When  autumn  came,  Ernest  Hume 
looked  into  his  son's  brown  eyes  and 
asked,  — 

"  Now  shall  we  go  back  ? " 

"  No  !  no  !  no  !  "  cried  the  boy,  with  a 
child's  passionate  cumulation  of  accent. 

"  Not  when  the  snow  comes  ? " 

"No,  father." 

"  And  the  lake  is  frozen  over  ? " 

"No,  father." 

"Then,"  said  Hume,  with  a  sigh  of 
great  content,  "  we  must  have  a  log-cabin, 
lest  our  bones  lie  bleaching  on  the  shore." 

Next  morning  he  went  into  the  woods 
with  Pierre  and  two  men  hastily  sum 
moned  from  the  village,  and  there  they 
began  to  make  axe-music,  the  requiem  of 
the  trees.  The  boy  sat  by,  dreaming  as 
he  sometimes  did  for  hours  before  start 
ing  up  to  throw  himself  into  the  active 
delights  of  swimming,  leaping,  or  rowing 
a  boat.  Next  day,  also,  they  kept  on  cut 
ting  into  the  heart  of  the  forest.  One 
dryad  after  another  was  despoiled  of  her 

4 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

shelter;  one  after  another,  the  green 
tents  of  the  bird  and  the  wind  were  folded 
to  make  that  sacred  tabernacle  —  a  home. 
Sometimes  Francis  chopped  a  little  with 
his  hatchet,  not  to  be  left  out  of  the  play, 
and  then  sat  by  again,  smoothing  the 
bruised  fern  -  forests,  or  whistling  back 
the  squirrels  who  freely  chattered  out 
their  opinions  on  invasion.  Then  came 
other  days  just  as  mild  winds  were  fan 
ning  the  forest  into  gold,  when  the  logs 
went  groaning  through  the  woods,  after 
slow  -  stepping  horses,  to  be  piled  into 
symmetry,  tightened  with  plaster,  and 
capped  by  a  roof.  This,  windowed,  swept 
and  garnished,  with  a  central  fireplace 
wherein  two  fires  could  flame  and  roar, 
was  the  log-cabin.  This  was  home.  The 
hired  builders  had  protested  against  its 
primitive  form ;  they  sighed  for  a  snug 
frame  house,  French  roof  and  bay  win 
dows.  "'Ware  the  cold!"  was  their 
daily  croak. 

"We'll  live  in  fur  and  toughen  our- 
5 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

selves,"  said  Ernest  Hume.  And  turning 
to  his  boy  that  night,  when  they  sat  to 
gether  by  their  own  fire,  he  asked,  — 

"Shall  we  fashion  our  muscles  into 
steel,  our  skin  into  armor?  Shall  we 
make  our  eyes  strong  enough  to  face  the 
sun  by  day,  and  pure  enough  to  meet  the 
chilly  stars  at  night  ?  Shall  we  have  Na 
ture  for  our  only  love  ?  Tell  me,  sir !  " 

And  Francis,  who  hung  upon  his  fa 
ther's  voice,  even  when  the  words  were 
beyond  him,  answered,  "Yes,  father, 
please !  "  and  went  on  feeding  birch  strips 
to  the  fire,  where  they  turned  from  vellum 
to  mysterious  missals  blazoned  by  an  un 
seen  hand. 

The  idyl  continued  unbroken  for  twelve 
years.  Yet  it  was  not  wholly  idyllic,  for, 
even  with  money  multiplying  for  them 
out  in  the  world,  there  were  hard  per 
sonal  conditions  against  which  they  had 
to  fight.  Ernest  Hume  delighted  in  the 
fierceness  of  the  winter  wind,  the  cold 
resistance  of  the  snow;  cut  off,  as  he 
6 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

honestly  felt  himself  to  be,  from  spiritual 
growth,  he  had  great  joy  in  strengthening 
his  physical  being  until  it  waxed  into  inso 
lent  might.  Francis,  too,  took  so  happily 
to  the  stern  yet  lovely  phases  of  their 
life  that  his  father  never  thought  of  possi 
ble  wrong  to  him  in  so  shaping  his  early 
years.  As  for  Ernest  Hume,  he  had 
bound  himself  the  more  irrevocably  to 
right  living  by  renouncing  artificial  bonds. 
He  had  removed  his  son  from  the  world, 
and  he  had  thereby  taken  upon  himself 
the  necessity  of  becoming  a  better  world. 
Therefore  he  did  not  allow  himself  in  any 
sense  to  rust  out.  He  did  a  colossal 
amount  of  mental  burnishing ;  and,  a  gen 
tleman  by  nature,  he  adopted  a  daily  pur 
ity  of  speech  and  courtesy  of  manner 
which  were  less  like  civilized  life  than  the 
efflorescence  of  chivalry  at  its  best.  He 
had  chosen  for  himself  a  part ;  by  his 
will,  a  Round  Table  sprang  up  in  the 
woods,  though  two  knights  only  were  to 
hold  counsel  there. 

7 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

The  conclusion  of  the  story  —  so  far 
as  a  story  is  ever  concluded  —  must  be 
found  in  the  words  of  Francis  Hume. 
Before  he  was  twenty,  his  strength  began 
stirring  within  him,  and  he  awoke,  not  to 
any  definite  discontent,  but  to  that  fever 
of  unrest  which  has  no  name.  Possibly 
a  lad  of  different  temperament  might  not 
have  kept  housed  so  long;  but  he  was 
apparently  dreamy,  reflective,  in  love  with 
simple  pleasures,  and,  though  a  splendid 
young  animal,  inspired  and  subdued  by  a 
thrilling  quality  of  soul.  And  he  woke 
up.  How  he  awoke  may  be  learned  only 
from  his  letters. 

These  papers  have,  by  one  of  the  in 
credible  chances  of  life,  come  into  my 
hands.  I  see  no  possible  wrong  in  their 
publication,  for  now  the  Humes  are  dead, 
father  and  son ;  nay,  even  the  name 
adopted  here  was  not  their  own.  They 
were  two  slight  bubbles  of  being,  destined 
to  rise,  to  float  for  a  time,  and  to  be  again 
resolved  into  the  unknown  sea.  Yet 
8 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

while  they  lived,  they  were  iridescei  ' ; 
the  colors  of  a  far-away  sun  played  upon 
them,  and  they  sent  him  back  his  gleams. 
To  lose  them  wholly  out  of  life  were 
some  pain  to  those  of  us  who  have  been 
privileged  to  love  them  through  their 
own  written  confessions.  So  here  are 
they  given  back  to  the  world  which  in  no 
other  way  could  adequately  know  them. 


I  NEVER  had  a  friend  !     Did  any  hu-  Francis 
man  creature  twenty  years  old  ever  Hume 
write  that  before,  unless  he  did  it  in  a    °Unknman 
spirit  of  bitterness  because  he  was  out  of  Friend* 
humor  with  his  world  ?    Yet  I  can  say  it. 
knowing  it  to  be  the  truth.     My  father 
and  I  are  one,  the  oak  and  its  branch,  the 
fern  and  its  fruitage;  but  for  somebody 
to  be  the  mirror  of  my  own  thoughts, 

*  This  title  is  adopted  by  the  editor  that  the  narrative 
may  be  at  least  approximately  clear.  The  paragraphs 
headed  thus  were  scribblings  on  loose  sheets:  a  sort  of 
desultory  journal. 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

tantalizingly  strange,  intoxicatingly  new, 
where  shall  I  look?  Ah,  but  I  know! 
I  will  create  him  from  my  own  longings. 
He  shall  be  born  of  the  blood  and  sinew 
of  my  brain  and  heart.  Stand  forth,  beau 
tiful  one,  made  in  the  image  of  my  fancy, 
and  I  will  tell  thee  all  —  all  I  am  ashamed 
to  tell  my  father,  and  tired  of  imprison 
ing  in  my  own  soul.  What  shall  I  call 
thee  ?  Friend  :  that  will  be  enough,  all- 
comprehending  and  rich  in  joy.  To-day  I 
have  needed  thee  more  than  ever,  though 
it  is  only  to-day  that  I  learned  to  recog 
nize  the  need.  All  the  morning  a  sweet 
languor  held  me,  warm,  like  the  sun,  and 
touched  with  his  fervor,  so  that  I  felt 
within  me  darts  of  impelling  fire.  I  sat 
in  the  woods  by  the  spring,  my  eyes  on 
the  dancing  shadows  at  my  feet,  not 
thinking,  not  willing,  yet  expectant.  I 
felt  as  if  something  were  coming,  and 
that  I  must  be  ready  to  meet  it  when  the 
great  moment  should  strike.  Suddenly 
my  heart  beat  high  in  snatches  of  rhythm  ; 
10 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

my  feet  stirred,  my  ears  woke  to  the 
whir  of  wings,  and  my  eyes  to  flickering 
shade.  My  whole  self  was  whelmed  and 
suffocated  in  a  wave  of  sweet  delight. 
And  then  it  was  that  my  heart  cried  out 
for  another  heart  to  beat  beside  it  and 
make  harmony  for  the  two ;  then  it  was 
that  thou,  dear  one,  wast  born  from  my 
thought.  I  am  not  disloyal  in  seeking 
companionship.  My  father  is  myself. 
Let  me  say  that  over  and  over.  When  I 
tell  him  my  fancies,  he  smiles  sadly,  saying 
they  are  the  buds  of  youth,  born  never  to 
flower.  To  him  Nature  is  goddess  and 
mother;  he  turns  to  her  for  sustenance 
by  day,  and  lies  on  her  bosom  at  night. 
After  death  he  will  be  content  to  rest  in 
her  arms  and  become  one  flesh  with  her 
mould.  But  I  —  I !  O,  is  it  because  I 
am  young ;  and  will  the  days  chill  out  this 
strange,  sweet  fever,  as  they  have  in  him  ? 
Two  years  ago  —  yes,  a  year  —  I  had  no 
higher  joy  than  to  throw  myself,  body 
and  soul,  into  motion  :  to  row,  fish,  swim, 
ii 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

to  listen,  in  a  dream  of  happiness,  while 
my  father  read  old  Homer  to  me  in  the 
evening,  or  we  masterfully  swept  through 
duets  —  'cello  and  violin  —  that  my  sleep 
was  too  dreamless  to  repeat  to  me  And 
now  the  very  world  is  changed  ;  help  me 
to  understand  it,  my  friend  ;  or,  if  I  am  to 
blame,  help  me  to  conquer  myself. 


ii 

I  have  much  to  tell  thee,  my  friend! 
and  of  a  nature  never  before  known  in 
these  woods  and  by  this  water.  Last 
night,  at  sunset,  I  stood  on  the  Point 
waiting  for  my  father  to  come  in  from 
his  round  about  the  island,  when  sud 
denly  a  boat  shot  out  from  Silver  Stream 
and  came  on  toward  me,  rowed  to  the 
accompaniment  of  a  song  I  never  heard. 
I  stood  waiting,  for  the  voices  were  beau 
tiful,  one  high  and  strong  (and  as  I 
listened,  it  flashed  upon  me  that  my 
father  had  said  the  'cello  is  like  a  woman 

12 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

singing),  another,  deep  and  rich.  There 
were  two  men,  as  I  saw  when  they  neared 
me,  and  two  women ;  and  all  were  young. 
The  men  —  what  were  they  like?  I 
hardly  know,  except  that  they  made  me 
feel  ashamed  of  my  roughness.  And  the 
women  !  One  was  yellow  -  haired  and 
pale;  she  had  a  fairy  build,  I  think,  and 
her  shoulders  were  like  the  birch-tree. 
Her  head  was  bare,  and  the  sun  —  he 
had  stayed  to  do  it  —  had  turned  all 
the  threads  to  gold.  She  was  so  white ! 
white  as  the  tiarella  in  the  spring.  When 
I  saw  her,  I  bent  forward;  they  looked 
my  way,  and  I  drew  back  behind  the  tree. 
I  had  been  curious,  and  I  was  ashamed ; 
it  seemed  to  me  they  might  stop  and  say, 
"Who  is  this  fellow  who  lives  in  the 
woods  and  stares  at  people  like  an  owl 
by  night  ? "  But  the  oars  dipped,  and 
the  boat  and  song  went  on.  The  song ! 
if  I  but  knew  it!  It  called  my  feet  to 
dancing.  It  was  like  laughter  and  the 
play  of  the  young  squirrels.  I  watched 
'3 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

for  them  to  go  back,  and  in  an  hour  they 
did,  still  singing  in  jubilant  chorus ;  and 
after  that  came  my  father.  As  soon  as 
I  saw  him,  I  knew  something  had  hap 
pened.  I  have  never  seen  him  so  sad,  so 
weary.  He  put  his  hand  on  my  shoulder, 
after  we  had  beached  the  boat  and  were 
walking  up  to  the  cabin. 

"Francis,"  he  said,  "our  good  days  are 
over." 

"Why?"  I  asked. 

It  appeared  to  me,  for  some  reason, 
that  they  had  just  begun;  perhaps  be 
cause  the  night  was  so  fragrant  and  the 
stars  so  near.  The  world  had  never 
seemed  so  homelike  and  so  warm.  I 
knew  how  a  bird  feels  in  its  own  soft 
nest. 

"Because  some  people  have  come  to 
camp  on  the  Bay  Shore.  I  saw  their 
tents,  and  asked  Pierre.  He  says  they 
are  here  for  the  summer.  Fool !  fool 
that  I  was,  not  to  buy  that  land  ! " 

"  But  perhaps  we  shall  like  them  !  "  I 
14 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

said,  and  my  voice  choked  in  the  saying, 
the  world  seemed  so  good,  so  strange. 
He  grasped  my  shoulder,  and  his  fingers 
felt  like  steel.  "Boy!  boy!"  he  whis 
pered.  For  a  minute,  I  fancied  he  was 
crying,  as  I  cried  once,  years  ago,  when 
my  rabbit  died.  "  I  knew  it  would  come," 
he  said.  "  Kismet !  I  bow  the  neck.  Put 
thy  foot  upon  it  gently,  if  may  be." 

We  went  on  to  the  cabin,  but  somehow 
we  could  not  talk  ;  and  it  was  not  long 
before  my  father  sought  his  tent.  I  went 
also  to  mine,  and  lay  down  as  I  was  :  but 
not  to  sleep.  Those  voices  sang  in  my 
ears,  and  my  heart  beat  till  it  choked  me. 
Outside,  the  moon  was  at  full  flood,  and 
I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  crept  softly 
out  of  my  tent,  and  ran  —  lightly,  so  that 
my  father  should  not  hear,  but  still  swiftly 
—  to  the  beach.  I  pushed  off  a  boat, 
grudging  every  grating  pebble,  and  dipped 
my  oars  carefully,  not  to  be  heard.  My 
father  would  not  have  cared,  for  often  I 
go  out  at  midnight ;  but  I  felt  strangely. 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

Yet  I  knew  I  must  see  those  tents.  Out 
of  his  earshot,  I  rowed  in  hot  haste,  and 
every  looming  tree  on  the  wooded  bank 
seemed  to  whisper  "  Hurry !  hurry ! "  I 
rounded  the  Point  in  a  new  agony  lest  I 
should  never  hear  those  singing  voices 
again ;  and  there  lay  the  tents,  white  in 
the  moonlight.  I  rowed  into  the  shadow 
of  a  cliff,  tied  my  boat,  and  crept  along  the 
shore.  I  could  see  my  mates,  and  they 
were  mad  with  fun.  Perhaps  a  dozen 
people  stood  there  together  on  the  sand 
laughing,  inciting  one  another  to  some 
merrier  deed.  I  stayed  in  the  shadow 
of  my  tree,  watching  them.  Then  five 
who  were  in  bathing-dress  began  wading, 
and  struck  out  swimming  lazily.  She 
was  there,  the  slight,  young  creature, 
now  with  her  hair  in  a  glory  below  her 
waist.  The  jealous  dark  had  hid  its  gold, 
but  I  knew  what  it  would  be  by  day. 
They  swam  about,  calling  and  laughing 
in  delicious  tones,  while  those  on  the 
bank  —  older  people  I  think  —  challenged 
16 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

and  cautioned  them.  Then  a  cry  went 
up,  "The  raft!  the  raft!"  and  they  be 
gan  swimming  out,  while  the  women  on 
the  bank  urged  them  not  to  dive,  but  to 
wait  until  to-morrow.  I  thought  I  had 
seen  all  the  sports  of  young  creatures, 
but  I  never  dreamed  of  anything  so  full  of 
happy  delight  in  life  as  that  one  girl  who 
climbed  on  the  raft  without  touching  the 
hand  a  man  offered  to  help  her,  and 
danced  about  on  it,  laughing  like  a  wood- 
thrush  gone  mad  with  joy,  while  the 
other  women  shrieked  in  foolish  snatches. 
Then  a  man  dived  from  the  raft,  and 
another.  A  woman  called  from  shore, 
"Don't  dive,  Zoe,  to-night!"  and  sud 
denly  I  knew  she  was  Zoe,  and  that  she 
would  dive  and  that  I  must  be  with  her. 
I  knocked  off  my  shoes,  waded  out,  still 
in  the  shadow,  and  swam  toward  the  raft. 
As  I  neared  it,  there  was  one  splash  after 
another ;  then  they  were  coming  up,  and 
I  was  among  them.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
had  dreamed  it,  and  knew  how  it  would 


THE    DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

all  happen ;  for  when  her  head,  sleek  as 
polished  metal,  came  up  beside  me,  I 
knew  it  would,  and  that  I  should  grasp 
her  dress  and  swim  back  with  her  to 
land.  She  was  surprised  ;  but  quite  me 
chanically  she  swam  beside  me. 

"Let  me  alone,  Tom,"  she  said  at  last. 
"I  don't  want  to  go  in."  I  had  guided 
her  down  the  bank  to  my  shadowy  covert, 
and  there  we  rose  on  our  feet  in  shallow 
water.  Then  she  turned  and  looked  at 
me.  I  was  not  Tom.  I  was  a  stranger. 
I  wondered  if  she  would  be  frightened,  if 
it  was  a  woman's  way  to  scream ;  and, 
still  worse,  if  the  others  would  come.  I 
felt  that  if  they  did  come  to  mar  that 
one  moment,  I  should  kill  them.  But 
she  was  scarcely  even  surprised.  I  saw 
a  quiver  at  the  corner  of  her  mouth. 

"Will  you  tell  me  who  you  are?"  she 
asked,  in  a  very  soft,  cool  voice. 

"  You  must  never  dive  again  from  that 
raft,"  said  I,  and  my  own  voice  sounded 
rough  and  hard.  "Pierre  knew  better 
18 


THE   DAY  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

than   to  let  you  anchor  it   there.     The 
water  is  too  shallow.     There  are  rocks." 

"  You  are  the  hermit's  son !  "  quite  as 
if  she  had  not  heard  me,  and  still  looking 
at  me  with  a  little  smile. 

"You  have  been  in  the  water  long 
enough,"  said  I.  "Go  to  your  tent  at 
once  and  dress.  In  another  minute  you 
will  be  shivering." 

At  that  she  broke  into  laughter ;  it  was 
like  the  moonlight  ripple  of  the  lake. 

"Sir,  I  obey,"  she  said  with  a  mock 
humility  which  enchanted  me.  "Good 
night."  She  walked  up  the  bank,  her 
wet  skirt  dripping  as  she  went.  I  stood 
dazed,  foolish,  looking  after.  Then  as 
she  threaded  among  the  trees  toward  the 
glimmer  of  a  tent,  I  recovered  myself  and 
ran  after  her. 

"  Tell  me,"  I  said  in  haste,  "  tell  me, 
are  you  Zoe  ? " 

She  was  walking  on,  and  I  kept  pace 
with   her,  knowing  how  rash   I   was  to 
follow.     She  turned  her  head. 
19 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

"Not  to  you,"  she  answered,  without 
pausing  in  her  walk.  "  Good-night ! " 
and  she  was  gone. 

I  know  I  found  my  boat,  and  that,  as  I 
rowed  away,  there  were  cries  of  "  Zoe ! " 
from  the  swimmers  who  had  missed  her. 
I  was  dripping,  but  my  blood  ran  fast. 
Was  she  cold?  Was  she  shivering? 
Fools,  to  let  so  delicate  a  creature  go  into 
the  water  at  night !  The  men  were  fools. 

in 

Ask  me  now  what  of  the  night  and 
what  of  the  day,  for  I  am  the  watchman 
who  is  fixing  his  eyes  upon  life  and  find 
ing  it  good.  Again  I  knew  there  were 
events  in  the  wind.  This  morning  my 
father,  too,  was  uneasy,  and  when  we  had 
finished  our  work,  we  went  out  together 
to  the  grove  near  the  landing,  each  with  a 
book ;  but  we  did  not  read.  He  watched 
the  lake,  and  I  tried  not  to  listen  for  the 
dip  of  oars.  At  last  it  came,  —  O  happy 

20 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

sound !  —  and  when  I  started  up,  I  found 
his  glance  upon  me. 

"  Yes,  they  are  coming,"  he  said  sadly, 
bitterly.  "  It  seems  we  both  expected  it." 

I  could  not  answer,  for  I  do  not  under 
stand  him.  Why  should  it  be  a  grief  to 
him  more  than  to  me,  this  seeing  men 
and  women  who  talk  and  laugh,  with 
whom  one  could  say  all  one  thought  with 
out  being  misunderstood,  and  who  can 
bring  us  such  news  of  the  world  ?  But  I 
had  not  time  to  say  these  things,  for  they 
were  coming,  two  boatloads  of  them  ;  and 
I  ran  down  to  the  landing  to  meet  them. 
She  was  in  the  first  boat,  her  hair  covered 
now,  but  kissed  by  the  sun  wherever  he 
could  reach  it.  With  her  was  an  older 
woman,  the  brown-eyed  young  one,  and 
the  same  young  men.  The  boat  touched 
the  landing,  and  I  helped  the  other 
women  ashore ;  but  she  put  her  fingers 
on  the  shoulder  of  a  man  in  the  boat  and 
stepped  past  me.  Why  ?  why  ?  my  heart 
cried  out  to  her.  Does  she  hate  me  for 

21 


THE    DAY    OF   HIS   YOUTH 

last  night  ?  Am  I  so  different  from  her 
people  because  I  live  in  the  woods  ?  In 
the  moment  I  hesitated,  thinking  it  over, 
they  all  got  on  shore,  and  were  standing 
about  my  father  and  talking  to  him. 
Then  I  found  he  had  known  them,  years 
ago. 

"  You  have  changed,"  the  older  woman 
was  saying.  "  You  are  sadder,  but  not 
so  bitter." 

"That  must  be  because  of  my  son," 
he  said.  And  he  turned  to  me,  and 
named  me  to  them,  and  I  heard  their 
names.  She  is  Zoe  Montrose,  the  older 
woman  is  her  aunt,  and  the  two  men  her 
cousins;  the  others,  all  young,  all  laugh 
ing,  and  looking  and  moving  about  like 
birds,  are  friends. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  brought 
him  up  in  this  wilderness  ?  "  asked  Mrs. 
Montrose  in  a  whisper  I  heard.  "  He  is 
perfect."  And  then  she  added,  after  a 
quick  glance  at  my  face,  "  Quite  perfect, 
for  he  can  blush." 

22 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

My  father  turned  aside  as  if  he  had 
no  stomach  for  soft  speeches,  and  asked 
them  to  sit  on  the  bank,  because  it  was 
pleasanter  out  of  doors.  And  though 
Mrs.  Montrose  said  plainly  that  she  wished 
to  see  how  we  lived,  he  only  smiled  and 
led  her  to  a  seat  under  a  tree.  No  one 
can  withstand  my  father.  It  seems  to 
me,  now  that  I  see  him  with  other  people, 
that  he  is  far  finer,  more  courteous,  more 
commanding  than  any  of  them. 

"  Bring  us  the  wine,  Francis,"  he  said 
to  me,  and  I  went  in  to  find  he  had  set 
it  out  on  a  salver  in  a  beautiful  decan 
ter  I  had  never  seen,  and  that  there  were 
glasses  and  bits  of  bread  all  ready,  as  if 
he  had  expected  guests.  I  brought  it 
out,  and  then  went  back  for  the  little 
glasses ;  and  my  father  served  them  all. 
She  held  her  glass  in  her  hand,  and  I 
feared  she  would  not  drink  ;  but  suddenly, 
behind  the  others,  she  lifted  the  glass, 
bowed  to  me,  and  a  quick  smile  ran  over 
her  face.  And  then  she  set  it  to  her  lips, 
23 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

still  looking  at  me.  It  was  I  who  took 
the  glasses  away,  and  hers,  which  had 
not  been  emptied,  I  left  inside  my  tent. 
(O,  you  know,  my  friend,  my  other  self, 
what  these  things  are  to  me !  only  you ! 
only  you !) 

"This  is  Homeric,"  said  Mrs.  Mont- 
rose.  "  Bread  and  wine.  The  flesh  is 
happily  absent." 

"  Did  you  expect  the  blood  of  '  mut 
tons,  beefs,  or  goats '  ? "  asked  my  father. 
"Sacrifice  may  come  later." 

Then  followed  a  great  deal  of  talk; 
but  I  have  not  been  used  to  hearing  so 
many  people  speaking  at  once,  and  I  could 
scarcely  follow,  and  cannot  at  all  remem 
ber  it.  But  while  I  sat  fearing  every 
instant  that  they  would  go,  my  heart 
bounded  again,  for  Mrs.  Montrose  asked 
us  both  to  row  over  to  their  camp  and 
lunch  with  them.  My  father  at  once  re 
fused,  sternly  I  thought,  but  he  added, 
without  looking  at  me,  — 

"I  cannot  answer  for  my  son." 
24 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

"  O,  yes,  I  will  go,"  I  cried.  I  must 
have  been  very  eager,  for  they  all 
laughed;  all  except  my  father,  and  he 
replied,  "So  be  it." 

They  said  good-by  to  him,  and  flut 
tered  down  to  the  wharf;  and  I  pushed 
off  my  boat  with  the  rest. 

"Good-by!"  I  called  to  him,  but  he 
only  waved  his  hand  and  turned  away. 


CERTAINLY  I  meant  every  word  I  From  Zoe 
V-x  said.     The  moment  I  saw  what  you  Montrose 
had  written  for  that  stupid  game,  I  knew  Hume 
you  had  a  marvelous  facility  of  expres 
sion.     No  doubt  your  father  has  nour 
ished  it  by  making  you  write  so  many 
reams    of    criticism  ;    but   it   is    evident 
that  you  had  a  gift   in   the   beginning, 
the  golden  gift  in  the  hand.      And   so, 
as    I    am    one   who    thinks    no    fortune 
happier  than  that  of  the  artisan  trained 
to  hammer  out  a  phrase,  what  is  more 
natural  than  that  I  should  long  for  you 
25 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

to  ascend  from  prentice  to  workman? 
Therefore  write  me,  —  "  every  day  i'  the 
hour,"  if  you  will,  —  and  by  all  means 
drop  the  letters  in  the  hollow  tree.  Here 
in  this  forest  is  the  happy  reverse  of  the 
world  -  shield ;  let  conventions  also  be 
turned  topsy-turvy,  and  letter-carriers  be 
eschewed  for  a  box  of  living  oak  and  a 
cushion  of  crumbling  mould.  I  will  be 
your  playmate,  your  comrade;  not  your 
friend.  I  hate  the  word  between  men 
and  women.  It  is  a  mantle  for  mawkish 
sentiment,  the  kind  that  stalks  about 
solemnly  like  a  Puritan  at  a  play,  seeing 
all  and  affecting  his  own  superiority. 
But,  an  you  will,  be  my  comrade  only; 
let  the  Forest  of  Arden  spring  up  again 
greenly,  and  let  us  play  at  simplicity  and 
outspoken  joy;  all  for  the  sake  of  devel 
oping  your  style !  But,  first  of  all,  I  do 
not  like  your  reason  for  asking  me  to 
write  to  you ;  you  cannot  see  me  alone, 
forsooth  !  and  you  have  a  thousand  ques 
tions  which  the  others  give  us  no  time  to 
26 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

ask  and  answer.  Nonsense,  doubled  and 
trebled  !  You  know  enough  of  me.  Be 
content  to  take  me  as  I  seem,  and  not  as 
I  am  in  the  world's  eyes  and  in  my  own ; 
then  you  will  the  longer  think  me  worthy 
to  walk  your  Arden  Forest.  Not  that  I 
have  anything  to  conceal.  I  am  no  more 
very  bad  than  very  good ;  but  it  is  the 
tragic  consequence  of  living  in  this  world 
that  (especially  if  we  be  men !  you,  sir,  I 
mean  you  !)  we  idealize  and  then  weigh  — 
admire,  laud  to  the  skies,  and  then  shove 
under  the  lens  —  only  to  find  that  all 
flesh  is  dust,  and  differeth  not,  except  so 
much  as  sea-sand  and  mountain-loam.  So 
be  content  to  know  this  only  about  me : 
that  I  am  five  years  your  senior  (a  quar 
ter-century,  ye  gods  !),  that  I  am  poor 
and  once  was  ambitious;  that  I  earned 
my  bread,  as  governess  and  intermittent 
literary  hack,  until  a  year  ago,  when  a 
tiny  fortune  was  left  me  by  a  relative 
whom  the  immortals  loved  not,  since 
he  lived  so  long ;  that  I  have  written 
27 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

three  novels,  moderately  successful,  and 
am  burning  to  find  out  whether  I  can 
write  a  play;  and,  last  of  all,  that  my 
aunt  invited  me  down  here  to  spend  this 
summer  in  what  she  calls  communion 
with  nature.  There!  the  chapter  is 
closed.  Be  egotistical,  you;  but  suffer 
me  to  talk  about  things  seen  and  heard, 
not  of  those  pertaining  to  the  particle  Me. 
Tell  me  everything  you  will,  and  without 
restraint.  I  may  not  criticise  your  style, 
though  I  shall  watch  to  see  it  develop 
into  something  fine. 


Francis       "\7'OUR  letter!  no,  mine,  as  nothing 
Hume  J_      kas  ever  keen  mine  since  I  was 

Montrose  born,  for  it  was  conceived  for  me  and 
moulded  for  my  eyes  only.  The  words 
you  have  said  to  me,  even  in  those  long 
hours  on  the  lake,  under  the  rose  of  sun 
set,  are  tantalizingly  lost,  though  I  try  to 
recall  them  as  I  lie  at  night  looking  at 
the  sky  from  my  bed;  I  know  their 
28 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

sense,  their  sound,  yet  something  sweetly 
personal  is  gone,  like  a  fragrance  es 
caped.  This  is  mine :  transcript  of  your 
beautiful  soul  upon  a  page  less  white. 
But  though  we  talk  all  day  on  the  lake 
and  half  the  night  by  camp-fires  under 
the  moon,  what  can  I  say  to  you  on  this 
cold  paper  and  with  this  dull  pen  ?  Ah, 
but  the  thoughts  I  send  you!  The 
winged  invisible  messengers  that  go  speed 
ing  between  us  in  those  silent  hours 
when  my  father  sleeps,  and  I  lie  in  my 
tent  watching  the  solemn  top  of  the  great 
pine,  and  over  it  the  stars  !  Those  mes 
sages  will  never  be  told  ;  earth  has  no 
speech  for  them.  They  are  beyond  the 
scope  of  music.  Yet  there  must  be 
speech  for  them  somewhere.  They  are 
like  the  overtones  we  cannot  hear  unless 
our  ears  are  delicately  attuned;  and  if 
you,  in  your  tent,  were  lying  in  an  ecstasy 
of  waiting  for  them  as  I  in  a  rapture  of 
sending,  then  would  you  not  hear  ?  But 
the  thought  is  too  great,  too  terrible. 
29 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

That  would  be  as  if  we  were  gods,  to 
taste  no  more  of  earthly  chills  and  lan 
guors.  Do  you  know  what  has  happened 
to  me  since  I  saw  you  first  ?  I  have 
grown  blind  to  the  rest  of  this  little 
world.  My  father's  voice  sounds  far-off 
and  hollow ;  even  his  face  is  strange,  as 
if  half  hidden  by  a  mist.  I  do  not  see 
the  others  at  your  camp,  even  though 
they  and  all  their  ways  ought  to  be  deli- 
ciously  new  to  me,  like  another  language. 
Only  when  some  one  touches  your  hand, 
or  gives  you  a  flower,  or  treats  you  famil 
iarly  !  Then  a  sudden  passion  of  hatred 
for  the  whole  world  shakes  me  to  the 
centre,  and  I  long  to  seize  you  in  my 
arms,  and  speed  away  with  you,  along 
the  lake  and  over  the  hills.  I  am,  in  my 
own  eyes,  what  I  have  always  supposed 
savages  to  be;  perhaps  I  am  a  savage. 
But  there  is  one  agony  you  might  spare 
me :  the  story  of  your  life  before  you 
came  here.  Twenty  wasted  years,  and  I 
did  not  know  you !  Spring  after  spring 
30 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

and  snow  upon  snow,  when,  like  an  earth- 
born  beast,  I  was  living  here  in  content, 
rowing,  skating,  talking  with  the  birds, 
and  you,  not  fifty  miles  away,  had  risen 
like  a  star  and  were  gleaming  there  in  that 
inaccessible  heaven.  That  this  should  be 
so,  that  I  must  accept  it,  is  terrible  to  me ; 
but  to  hear  the  story  of  it  is  like  a  fore 
taste  of  death.  It  fascinates,  it  draws 
me,  and  yet  it  kills.  That  you  should 
say  "we"  over  and  over  again,  when  you 
talk  of  the  music  you  have  heard,  the 
books  you  have  read,  is  more  than  I  can 
bear.  But  I  would  not  have  you  cease. 
I  must  know  all,  all ;  and  yet  it  tortures. 


T^RANKLY,  I  don't  at  all  like  the  zoe  Mont- 
r    tone  of   your  letter.     I  like  it  as  roset° 
little  as  I  approve  your  fashion  of  treat-  *™ncis 
ing  me  "  before  folks."    You  glower  upon 
me;  half  as  if  I  were  daughter  of  the 
sun  and  you  his  priest,  and  half  Circas 
sian  slave.     I  don't  like  it !     I  came  here 
31 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

to  these  solitudes  for  rest  and  mental 
peace.  My  mind  is  lying  fallow.  Should 
it  waken  to  any  immediate  fertility,  I 
don't  want  to  expend  it  on  you,  either  in 
antiphonal  sentiment  or  in  staving  off 
heroics.  To  speak  brutally,  I  want  it  for 
the  publisher  and  mine  own  after-glory. 
If  this  plain  statement  of  the  case  does  n't 
blight  the  peach-blossoms  of  your  fancy, 
I  don't  know  what  will.  Write  me  about 
your  life  here,  the  life  of  the  woods  and 
lake.  You  know  enough  bird-lore  never 
learned  from  books  to  write  a  thousand 
St.  Francis  sermons.  Even  the  fish  have 
told  you  secrets.  I  fancy  they  think  you 
some  strange,  fresh-water  whale  not  to 
be  accounted  for.  Tell  me  about  them ; 
and  drop  this  mawkish  sentiment  caught 
from  books. 


Frauds       T  HAVE  read  your  last  letter,  but  I 
Hume          J_  onj    naj£  understand  you,  and  I  must 

*/•»    7  s**  ~  J          * 


Montrose     wholly  disobey.     For  I  have  learned  the 

,32 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

meaning  of  all  things  created,  the  sky  and 
the  earth,  the  stars  that  are  the  habita 
tions  of  loving  angels,  and  the  worm  who 
seeks  his  mate.  I  love  you  !  It  is  that 
for  which  I  have  lived  my  twenty  years. 
At  last,  without  warning,  my  life  has  flow 
ered,  and  the  fragrance  of  the  blossom 
intoxicates  me,  its  color  blinds.  At  first 
I  only  knew  the  earth  was  changed,  and 
that  I  could  never  be  the  same;  but  I 
did  not  translate  the  knowledge.  All  the 
poets  had  not  told  me  enough;  Shake 
speare  had  not  prepared  me.  But  last 
night  —  do  I  ever  sleep  now  ?  —  when  I 
lay  thinking,  thinking,  and  always  of  you, 
my  soul  spoke  and  said  to  me,  "  So  great 
a  thing  must  be  eternal.  This  longing 
is  like  a  Beethoven  Sonata;  it  will  live 
and  live,  growing  in  glory  and  color, 
through  the  ages,  even  if  it  live  in  your 
soul  alone."  And  I  woke  to  the  sense  of 
it  all,  and  spoke  aloud  :  "  It  is  love !  "  It 
is  like  having  a  treasure  given  me  to  be 
all  my  own ;  for  now  I  have  a  word  for 
33 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

happy  use,  and  I  can  say  over  and  over, 
"I  love  you,"  and  so  tell  you  all.  I  can 
whisper  "Beloved"  in  the  brief  pauses 
when  the  others  are  with  us  and  I  have 
only  the  chance  of  a  word  in  your  ear. 
But  let  me  see  you  next  alone.  Let  me 
look  into  your  eyes,  and  demand  whether 
your  soul  also  has  had  revelation  of  the 
truth. 


Zoe  Mont-     T  ASK  myself  whether  this  had  to  come 
rose  to          J_    to  you  so  soon,  and  whether  I  could 

Francis  J 

jfume  have  prevented  it.  I  am  afraid  not.  You 
were  bound  to  fancy  the  first  woman  you 
met,  and  that  woman  chanced  to  be  Zoe 
Montrose.  I  know  exactly  how  it  was. 
I  have  yellow  hair,  and  the  sun  shone 
on  it.  There  is  always  a  reason,  if  one 
could  follow  it  far  enough.  It  might 
have  been  Clara.  She  was  with  me  in 
the  boat,  if  you  remember ;  only  the  sun 
struck  her  hair  at  a  different  angle,  and 
you  never  discovered  how  red  it  is  in 
34 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

the  hollows,  how  like  leaf  mould  without. 
Bismillah  !  the  gods  have  selected  me 
for  your  enlightenment,  and  their  will  be 
done.  I  am  glad  for  you  in  one  particu 
lar  only.  I  am  a  worldly  woman,  filled 
from  the  crown  to  the  toe  topful  of 
earthly  wisdom ;  but  I  am  not  of  those 
sentimental  sirens  who,  in  the  strictest 
good-breeding,  turn  men  into  beasts  by 
dallying  with  their  worship,  and  then 
leaving  them  high  and  dry  on  the  rock 
of  disillusionment.  I  am  honest,  and  I 
will  sweep  away  your  cobwebs  in  the  be 
ginning.  My  dear,  there  is  no  such  thing 
as  love  as  you  conceive  it.  What  you 
and  the  other  poets  have  seen  is  a  will- 
o'-the-wisp,  created,  heaven  knows  why, 
save  that  we  may  learn  hard  lessons  and 
that  the  world  may  be  peopled.  You 
feel  for  me  an  ecstasy  of  devotion.  You 
think  it  will  be  eternal ;  that  you  were 
made  for  me  and  I  for  you,  and  that  our 
two  souls  will  sail  forever  on  in  each 
other's  company,  chanting  pretty  trifles 
35 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

by  the  way.  God  bless  and  save  you! 
this  is  the  very  hyperbole  of  the  poets, 
and  of  poets  under  forty  at  that.  What 
dominates  you  is  a  fever  of  the  blood,  an 
attendant  delirium  of  the  mind  solely  de 
pending  on  your  youth  and  my  passable 
prettiness.  I  wish  you  might  have  been 
saved  ;  but  it  had  to  happen.  I  wish,  too, 
that  the  attack  might  leave  you  lightly ; 
but  that,  also,  owing  to  your  unfortunate 
temperament,  is  impossible.  I  can  only 
show  my  real  liking  for  you  by  acting 
sedately,  and  sitting  by  your  bedside  un 
til  you  rise  up  sane  again  and  put  your 
hand  to  the  world's  work.  Do  you  want 
this  emotion  you  call  love  translated  to 
you  by  a  woman  who  has  studied  her 
kind  as  you  study  the  birds  ?  You  say  it 
is,  it  must  be  (O,  most  pitiful  cry  of  the 
finite  after  infinity !)  eternal.  It  is  no 
thing  of  the  sort.  It  is  prosaically  and 
sordidly  of  this  earth,  especially  in  the 
case  of  men.  I  grant  you  that  many 
women  do  subordinate  their  lives  to  what 
36 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

they  call  a  great  passion  (poor  Amelia  cry 
ing  over  George's  picture !  O  sad,  true 
travesty  of  the  worship  we  so  exalt !), 
but  it  is  because  they  have  fewer  inter 
ests,  and  because  tradition  has  glorified 
feminine  faithfulness  and  society  built  its 
temples  on  woman's  chastity.  But  men  ! 
I  know  them.  Do  not  expect  me  to  own, 
for  a  moment,  that  any  man  is  going  to 
worship  any  woman  all  his  life  long  with 
the  fervor  he  shows  in  pursuing  the  game. 
Many  are  kind,  some  are  tender,  even  to 
gray  hairs  and  the  grave ;  but  that  par 
ticular  form  of  idolatry  which  you  offer 
me  like  a  jewel  in  a  case, — it  turns  to 
paste  in  less  than  ten  years,  and  I  will 
have  none  of  it.  But  why,  you  ask,  set 
myself  outside  the  pale  of  human  kind  ? 
It  is  a  joy,  though  fleeting,  and  if  others 
prize  it,  even  briefly,  why  not  I  ?  I  know 
myself  too  well.  I  am,  in  many  ways,  a 
hard  woman.  My  heart  is  bedded  in  a 
crust  of  flint,  and  no  daw  shall  peck  at  it. 
But  if  that  armor  were  worn  away,  if  I 
37 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

did  sink  my  traditions  to  become  all- 
womanly,  if  I  pinned  life  and  soul  and 
faith  and  breath  to  a  man  —  O,  I  shud 
der  to  think  of  seeing  that  morning-glow 
fade  into  the  light  of  common  day.  It  is 
such  women  as  I  who  break  their  hearts ; 
not  your  sentimental  miss  who  goes  pul 
ing  about,  prating  love  and  religion,  and 
confiding  in  her  pastor.  I  have  laughed 
long  at  what  I  call  sentiment,  but  I  am 
more  sentimental  than  the  sentimentalist. 
I  own  the  awful  power  of  one  soul  over 
its  opposite ;  but  it  is  a  power  to  which  I 
will  not  give  way.  Now,  in  plain  words, 
what  should  be  the  outcome  of  love  ? 
Marriage.  And  marriage  ;  what  of  that  ? 
It  is  a  welding  of  two  souls,  say  you,  be 
fore  an  altar  where  a  sacred  fire  is  ever 
after  to  be  kept  burning.  According  to 
my  idea,  gathered  from  observation,  it  is 
a  business  partnership  gilded  by  certain 
pretty  fictions  which  no  one  pretends  to 
observe.  For  six  months,  a  year,  five 
years,  the  husband  worships  his  wife  with 
38 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS  YOUTH 

an  ideality  which  ought  to  turn  beggar- 
maids  to  queens  and  queens  to  angels. 
Then,  plainly,  he  gets  used  to  her.  She 
is  a  very  good  woman,  but  her  like  has 
been  seen  before,  and  may  be  again.  His 
nature  has  a  dozen  sides  to  be  satisfied ; 
he  is  ambitious,  he  loves  art,  or  money, 
or  his  dirty  fellow-men.  All  very  well, 
you  say ;  without  such  bent,  souls  would 
be  cramped  and  torpid.  Ah,  but  mean 
time  the  altar-fire  dies  down !  If  she 
loves  him  truly,  — 

"  And  if,  ah  woe !  she  loves  alone," 

she  tends  it  with  her  poor,  weak  hands ; 
but  no  longer  are  the  ministrants  two. 
The  little  observances  of  love  are  for 
gotten,  or  they  degenerate  into  a  mean 
ingless  form  more  pitiful  than  silence. 
You  grant,  I  suppose,  that  there  is  a 
higher  life  to  be  sought,  one  of  aspiration, 
or  holy  companionship  in  great  deeds  and 
truer  speech,  —  but  as  I  live  by  bread,  I 
doubt  whether  husbands  and  wives  can 
39 


THE   DAY   OF    HIS   YOUTH 

keep  that  track  together.  You  are  a 
young  Galahad  with  Lancelot's  heart.  I 
believe  in  you,  I  care  mightily  for  you 
in  a  certain  way  ;  but  you  are  a  man,  and 
none  of  the  weaknesses  of  mankind  are 
foreign  to  you.  I  am  a  woman,  and,  hard 
as  my  heart  may  be,  it  is  made  to  be 
broken.  Therefore  say  no  more  to  me 
about  this  foolish  fever  of  your  youth. 
Believe  me,  it  is  a  malady  incident  to  the 
time.  It  will  pass,  in  this  present  form, 
sometime  to  be  renewed.  You  will  love 
other  women,  and  one  day  the  unexpres- 
sive  she  will  appear  who  has  never  once 
peeped  into  these  worldly  text-books. 
Hand  in  hand,  she  and  you  will  learn  the 
lesson  together.  It  may  be  bitter,  it  may 
not.  There  are  those,  I  believe,  whom 
the  gods  forget ;  but  I  have  no  faith  in 
myself  escaping  their  thrusts. 
40 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS  YOUTH 

WHY  would  you  not  let  me  talk  to  Francis 
you  yesterday,  without  waiting  to  Hume 
depend  on  this  poverty-stricken  expedi-  °Mo^trose 
ent?  I  have  not  had  an  instant  alone 
with  you.  But  I  love  you !  I  love  you ! 
Who  shall  prevent  me  from  saying  that ! 
You  may  refuse  to  hear  it,  you  may  leave 
my  letters  unread;  yet  all  the  trees  of 
the  forest  shall  whisper  it  with  gossip 
ing  tongues.  But  no  more  of  this  now. 
Your  letter  has  made  me  feel  imperatively 
that  a  demand  has  been  made  upon  me : 
the  demand  of  proving  myself  a  man,  and 
worthy,  if  any  man  can  be,  of  the  inesti 
mable  treasure  of  your  heart.  So  it  be 
comes  me  to  be  calm,  and  reply  to  what 
you  say,  not  with  mad  protest,  but  with 
just  consideration.  I  am  a  man,  and  no 
weakness  of  mankind  is  foreign  to  me. 
I  grant  it.  (Though  my  heart  throbs 
within  me  to  swear  such  fealty  as  you 
have  never  yet  dreamed.  But  let  that 
pass.  My  life  shall  show.)  Well,  and 
41 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

suppose  the  first  glow  of  new  acquaint 
anceship  does  fade.  Let  it  go.  Might 
not  something  finer  usurp  its  place,  as  the 
flower  is  more  than  leaf  or  bud  ?  If  it  be 
possible  that  this  great  rapture  should 
vanish  (O,  I  know  better  than  you,  with 
all  your  worldly  lore!  It  is  perennial, 
ever-returning  like  the  spring,  though 
snows  may  intervene),  do  you  think  my 
tenderness  would  allow  one  sweet  observ 
ance  to  fade  ?  What  infinite  loving  must 
grow  of  a  daily  life  together,  what  fine 
consideration,  what  pride  in  each  other's 
achievement,  what  mutual  joy!  I  have 
talked  long  enough  on  paper.  Take  me, 
and  let  me  serve  you  all  my  life,  guard 
you,  cherish  you,  and  prove  the  truth. 


Zoe  Mont-    'npENDERNESS  and  constancy !  that, 

rose  to  \  i  -i  i     •      r  •       i   i  •  si   • 

Francis         1-     my  child,  is  friendship  —  it  is  not 

Hume        love.     And   I   can   gather   a  very  good 

article  of  friendship  from  many  a  wayside 

bush  without  going  over  hot  ploughshares 

42 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

to  seek  it.  Listen,  and  I  will  tell  you 
exactly  how  I  learned  to  interpret  the 
later  course  of  passion.  I  lived  and 
breathed  it  side  by  side  and  heart  to  heart 
with  a  woman  once.  I  will  not  tell  you 
her  name;  she  is  living,  and  some  time 
you  may  know  her.  I  had  a  friend,  and 
I  loved  her.  She  married  a  man  who 
worshiped  her,  who  was  intoxicated  by 
her  as  you  are  by  me.  He  was  her 
slave,  if  I  may  say  that  of  one  who  took 
more  than  he  bestowed ;  but  though  he 
absorbed  her  life  and  narrowed  it  in  cer 
tain  ways,  he  made  her  divinely  happy. 
So  it  went  on  for  years,  until  suddenly, 
through  some  new  combination  of  cir 
cumstances,  they  were  separated  for  a 
time,  and  he  woke  up.  O  telltale  phrase 
in  the  life  of  a  man !  You  don't  know 
how  much  it  means  now,  but  you  will 
know.  She  was  dazed,  confounded.  Not 
that  he  was  unkind  to  her;  he  was  a 
gentleman,  though  a  gentleman  grown 
indifferent.  About  that  time  he  drifted 

43 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

into  friendship  with  another  woman,  led 
thereto,  he  would  have  said,  by  their 
kindred  tastes.  Nothing  vicious  here, 
nothing  to  distress  the  taste  of  law-abid 
ing  citizens ;  but  a  tragedy  of  the  soul. 
I  wonder  if  I  can  paint  it  for  you.  Here 
was  a  passionately  devoted  wife,  taught 
by  every  act  and  word  and  look  of  years 
to  depend  for  happiness  on  one  living 
creature :  to  turn  to  him,  as  to  the  sun, 
for  life  and  nourishment.  Suddenly  the 
sun  was  withdrawn,  the  light  went  out; 
she  was  expected  to  see  by  candle.  Do 
not  imagine  that  she  betrayed  him  to  me ; 
we  are  not  like  that.  I  knew  because 
she  was  so  dear  to  me,  and  I  had  lived 
beside  her  and  learned  her  thoughts.  I 
felt  the  tragedy  as  it  was  enacted,  day  by 
day.  I  saw  her  poor  face  sodden  with 
weeping.  I  suppose  she  reproached  him 
at  first,  wildly,  in  woman's  way.  I  sup 
pose  that  because  I  knew  him  to  be  an 
gry  and  bored.  But  when  she  saw  little 
winning  attentions  which  had  once  been 

44 


THE   DAY  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

hers  given  to  another,  I  think  it  began 
to  dawn  upon  her  that  they  had  never 
meant  anything  from  the  first.  They 
were  subjective,  if  I  may  put  it  so :  a 
part  of  the  man's  nature,  the  trophy  of 
any  one  who  knew  the  password.  Then 
the  whole  woman  hardened.  She  re 
proached  him  no  more.  If  he  showered 
on  her  some  of  the  unspent  coin  of  his 
affection,  she  took  it  graciously,  not  treas 
uring  it  even  in  thought ;  because  she 
dared  not  build  again  a  house  upon  the 
sand.  Her  individuality  grew  mightily 
meantime.  She  became  a  creature  of  a 
wonderful  strength  and  depth  of  thought ; 
but  her  heart  is  dead  within  her.  Some 
times  I  can  see  that  she  is  even  amused, 
in  a  pathetic  way,  at  finding  how  lightly 
his  indifference  can  pass  over  her.  Now 
this  was  a  good  man,  as  men  go.  He 
would  have  scorned  a  sin  larger  than  this 
romantic  peccadillo,  —  but  he  was  a  man ! 
He  had  waked  up  and  found  himself 
bored.  And  so  would  you  !  So  far  as  I 
45 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

have  been  able  to  unravel  it,  what  we 
call  love  is  only  a  compound  of  selfishness 
and  vanity.  The  lover  gives  so  long  as 
the  return  amuses  him.  He  buys  with 
his  devotion  a  counter-devotion  calculated 
to  make  him  supremely  happy  ;  but  when 
the  story  grows  old,  he  yawns  and  goes 
elsewhere,  either  to  smoke,  run  for  office, 
write  a  book,  or  worship  another  woman. 
Never  imagine  that  I  decry  men  and  ex 
alt  my  own  poor  kind.  Woman  is  the 
more  constant  only  because  she  has  been 
taught,  through  nature  and  inheritance, 
to  give  once  and  forever ;  and  God  made 
man  to  be  gregarious. 

I  have  told  you  my  friend's  secret. 
Now  I  will  tell  you  mine.  There  is  a 
man  in  the  world  —  not  you  —  who  holds 
for  me  the  fascination  we  are  accustomed 
to  call  love.  God  knows,  it  is  an  earth- 
born  attraction,  for  he  is  one  who  loves 
himself  far  more  than  he  even  professes 
to  love  me,  and  there  is  not  one  higher 
aspiration  of  my  soul  to  which  he  would 
46 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

minister.  He  would  tire  of  me,  and  he 
would  break  my  heart.  Therefore  I  will 
have  none  of  him,  though  a  mighty  hand 
seems  ever  dragging  me  toward  him,  and 
though  that  part  of  me  which  is  in  love 
with  the  intoxications  of  life  bids  me 
make  one  throw  for  happiness  and  then 
die  in  despair.  And  neither  will  I  have 
aught  of  you,  though  you  seem  to  me  a 
young  St.  Michael  with  lance  of  honor 
and  shield  of  strength. 


i 


DO  not  know  why,  but  for  some  reason  Francis 
your  letter  has  not  killed   my  hope.  Hume 
Perhaps  it  would  have  done  so,  but  I  took  to  Zoe 

.    .  Montrose 

it  into  the  woods,  the  deeper  woods,  where 
I  have  begun  to  go  of  late  to  be  wholly 
alone.  For  now  even  the  tents  by  day 
light  seem  to  me  like  multitudes  of  eyes, 
and  my  father,  also,  breaks  in  on  my 
dream.  So  I  carried  it  to  the  woods 
where  the  light  flickered  and  the  shadows 
of  little  leaves  played  upon  their  larger 
47 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

mates.  They  seemed  to  me  like  the 
phantasmagoria  of  being.  I  had  not  be 
gun  to  think  of  such  things  till  I  saw  you. 
Life  has  grown  infinitely  sad,  as  well  as 
infinitely  beautiful.  It  has  a  haze :  the 
haze  of  twilight.  Well,  the  letter!  It 
jarred  upon  me;  that  is  a  matter  of 
course.  It  removed  you  from  me,  im 
measurably,  with  its  hints  of  a  knowledge 
which  I  may  never  attain.  When  shall  I 
be  your  equal,  even  in  the  wisdom  of  this 
world  ?  You  have  known  so  many  peo 
ple;  I  only  one.  That  of  itself  makes 
me  sad.  And  then  when  I  came  to  the 
inexplicable  fact  that  there  was  one  you 
might  love,  I  felt  within  me  a  savage  pain, 
a  rising  of  hot  blood,  such  as  I  never 
knew.  What  was  it  ?  Has  it  a  name  ? 
Does  it  mean  a  futile  passion  because  life, 
destiny,  have  treated  us  so  brutally,  set 
ting  you  there  and  me  here,  so  that  your 
loves  grew  away  from  me,  and  the  ten 
drils  of  your  nature  twined  another  way  ? 
And  thus  I  sat  suffering.  But  soon  the 
43 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

wood  drew  me  into  her  arms.  I  have 
never  thought  much  about  beauty ;  it  has 
always  been  about  me.  But  of  late  it  has 
spoken  with  a  new  voice.  O  the  quiver 
ing  of  the  blue  sky-patches,  the  duskiness 
of  shade !  The  tree-trunks  were  black 
from  the  morning  rain,  and  everything  set 
upon  a  stem  waved  and  fluttered,  though 
so  slightly  that  it  was  rhythm  and  not 
motion.  The  faint  shadow  on  the  tiarella 
leaf  seemed  to  me  divine;  the  maiden 
hair  rustled  greenly,  and  far  off,  in  other 
arches,  the  thrush  smote  softly  on  his 
silver  bells.  And  you  were  the  soul  of  it. 
I  should  not  have  been  surprised  to  see 
you  there  in  some  dim  vista,  with  the  sun 
upon  your  hair.  But  I  shall  never  be 
surprised  again  at  seeing  you.  You  are 
in  my  world  now ;  and  my  world  cannot 
move  without  you.  O,  but  I  wish  you 
were  not  so  wise!  I  would  you  had 
never  learned  this  strange  and  intricate 
game  they  call  society.  What  profit  is  in 
it  for  you,  but  what  infinite  pain  is  there 

49 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

in  it  to  me!  These  are  the  ironies  of 
Those  Who  are  above  us.  (That  is  my 
father's  phrase ;  he  talks  of  Them  some 
times,  in  the  night  when  he  cannot  sleep, 
and  walks  up  and  down  the  cabin  as  if  he 
wished  it  were  a  world  for  width.  The 
ironies  of  the  immortal  gods !  I  begin  to 
understand  my  father  a  little  now.  I 
thought  I  understood  him  before.)  We 
two,  you  and  I,  should  have  been  born  like 
twin  birds  in  a  nest,  and  gone  singing 
away  to  the  south.  (Yet  O  my  bird  of 
the  shining  wing,  O  my  bird!  I  would 
not  have  you  other  than  you  are.)  We 
should  have  grown  together,  twin  plants, 
from  the  sweet  black  earth,  to  twine  and 
blossom  and  die.  But  it  was  not  so  to 
be ;  and  therein  I  see  what  they  call  the 
hardships  of  life,  and  against  such  will  I 
take  my  lance  and  shield,  and  ride  forth. 
I  will  watch  beside  my  arms,  and  draw 
down  holiness  from  heaven,  to  be  worthy 
to  fight  for  you,  and  wear  your  favor. 
Not  worthy  of  winning  you  —  O,  mistake 
50 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

me  not  in  that !  No  heart  was  ever  hum 
bler  than  mine  before  its  lady.  Yet,  as  I 
am  a  man,  my  reward  must  come.  I  will 
win  the  world's  delight,  and  I  will  wear 
her  in  the  eye  of  the  world  :  I,  her  plain 
and  humble  squire,  whose  only  pride  is 
to  keep  unsmirched  for  her  fair  sake.  I 
have  not  your  wisdom,  but  I  begin  to  be 
lieve  that  I  have  a  will  to  conquer ;  and 
it  shall  be  bent  upon  my  quest  as  if  the 
world,  —  aye,  and  the  sun  !  —  were  made 
for  that.  But  tell  me,  you  who  know  the 
lore  of  men,  when  we  really  begin  to  live, 
do  we  always  ache  so  at  the  heart  ? 


MY  CHILD,  —  Your  questions  are  Zoe  Mont- 
delicious.     What  you  felt  on  read-  rose  to 
ing  my  letter?   Yes,  Sir  Innocence,  it  hath 
a  name  :  Jealousy.    'T  is  a  very  legitimate 
passion,  so  I  think,  but  it  hath  earned 
in  the  world  a  bad  repute.     You  white- 
armored   child!  this   meeting  a  soul   so 
dense  to  its  own  emotions  is  like  cooling 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS    YOUTH 

drink  in  a  desert.  You  complain  because 
I  am  your  senior  and  a  trifle  world-worn, 
and  you  do  not  know  that  you  are  com 
plaining.  You  wish  we  had  been  born  at 
the  same  minute.  Pretty !  poetic  !  but  in 
plain  prose,  "I  would  you  were  not  my 
elder  ! "  And  so  would  I ;  for  if  I  were 
set  back  those  five  years,  it  would  give 
me  just  five  years  more  to  hack  away  at 
my  plays.  I  will  not  say  how  your  moon- 
ings  and  mouthings  would  affect  me; 
possibly  then  I  might  be  caught  by  such 
pretty  sweets.  The  last  question  of  all  : 
Does  the  world  feel  immortal  pain  at  its 
heart?  Frankly,  yes.  Nobody  can  be 
really  happy  except  imbeciles  and  chil 
dren  ;  and  not  they,  if  they  chance  to  be 
underfed.  But  be  of  good  cheer.  Only 
women  ache  all  their  lives  long,  every  day 
of  every  year.  They  are  an  unintelligent 
lot,  not  to  have  learned  self -protection. 
They  wear  their  souls  outside;  and  not 
being  in  the  least  original,  they  have  not 
yet  invented  a  thoroughly  satisfactory 
52 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

coat  of  mail.  For  you,  belonging  to  the 
lords  of  the  earth,  there  will,  after  a  time, 
be  immunity.  You  will  break  your  heart. 
(O,  how  infinitely  wearisome  to  reflect 
that  you  have  determined  to  break  it 
about  me ! )  Then  you  will  waken  to  a 
vapid  interest  in  work,  discover  your  own 
nice  -talent  for  manipulating  words,  put 
all  your  past  woes  into  verse,  and  by  the 
time  your  reputation  is  made,  you  won't 
despise  a  good  cigar  and  a  club  dinner. 
Nature  has  provided  you  as  she  has  the 
lobster.  Never  fear;  your  claws  will 
grow,  though  they  may  be  often  nipped. 
It  is  plain  that  you  are  to  suffer,  but  I 
don't  very  much  pity  you.  Unless  you 
take  to  drink  or  any  other  unhygienic 
habit,  you  are  sure  to  get  something  out 
of  life.  If  you  riddle  your  nerves,  I  won't 
answer  for  you.  But,  at  the  present  mo 
ment,  one  thing  must  be  done.  Your 
letters  must  simply  cease  to  be  drenched 
with  the  night-dew  of  flimsy  sentiment. 
Wring  it  out,  and  send  them  dry.  Other- 
53 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

wise  you  get  no  answers.     Do  you  hear, 
you  gentle  barbarian  ? 

And  I  don't  like  your  style  overmuch. 
It  is  n't  improving  as  I  hoped.  You 
don't  want  to  drag  out  long,  saccharine 
sentences,  dripping  with  sugar  as  they 
crawl.  Tell  something !  Let  it  be  real, 
—  or  let  it  not  be  at  all. 


Francis       /^\  THE  irony  stamped  on  those  four 

Hume         \J    iittie   letters!      Real!      And   my 

M<mtrose     wno^e  heart  in  it,  a  man's  whole  heart. 

That  means  something.     But  I  obey  you. 

Last  night  I  dreamed  all  night  long,  one 

picture  after  another.     First  came  this : 

I  stood  upon  a  dusty  way,  and  multitudes 

of  people  were  passing.    They  looked  like 

you  and  like  my  father,  but  they  were  sad. 

They  were   bowed  down,  and   many  of 

them  carried  great  brown  bundles  on  their 

backs,  bundles  of  wood,  it  seemed  to  me, 

or  withered  grass.    Then  I,  too,  grew  very 

sad  and  heavy  because  every  one  else 

54 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

seemed  so ;  but  suddenly  my  eye  fell  on  a 
great  light,  and  I  wondered  that  I  had  not 
seen  it  before,  and  that  none  of  them  saw 
it.  There,  in  the  midst,  by  the  roadside, 
stood  the  Apollo,  warm,  rosy,  afire  with 
life.  His  mantle  was  purple  touched  with 
rose:  such  color  as  we  see  in  the  east 
before  the  sun  comes,  and  in  the  west 
after  he  is  gone.  His  hair  was  long,  and 
ran  down  his  back  in  a  great  tawny  river, 
—  darker  than  yours,  —  and  he  stretched 
out  his  arm  fearlessly  holding  the  bow. 
Yet  no  one  saw  him  but  me.  I  fancied, 
even  in  my  dream,  that  the  arrow  he 
would  shoot  might  teach  them  a  happier 
way  to  travel ;  but  no  one  even  knew  he 
was  there,  or  heard  the  twanging  of  the 
string  or  saw  the  cleaving  of  the  arrow's 
flight.  Then  I  sank  down  into  darkness 
like  a  gulf,  and  only  rose  again  to  the 
splendor  of  another  dream.  The  world 
seemed  very  large,  larger  than  it  does 
when  you  stand  on  the  peak  of  Lone 
Mountain,  with  not  a  shade  to  cover  you. 
55 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

There  were  many  people,  in  an  agony  of 
terror  and  pain,  as  Pierre  was  the  night 
after  I  found  him  wounded  and  delirious 
from  his  fight  with  the  bears.  The  peo 
ple  were  old,  and  poor,  and  shabby,  but 
still  they  looked  like  you,  and  their  agony 
was  dreadful  to  behold.  They  were  all 
gazing  upward,  and  I,  too,  turned  my 
eyes  to  see,  and  lo  !  the  heavens  were  all 
burning  and  brazen,  and  I  saw  that  the 
heat  was  greater  than  I  could  endure. 
The  sorrow  and  fear  of  those  about  me 
grew  more  terrible ;  they  wept  and  wrung 
their  hands,  —  still  like  Pierre,  when  he 
imagined  he  was  again  pursued.  One 
thought  came  over  me ;  and  it  seemed 
to  me  more  awful  than  anything  I  saw. 
The  trees !  the  sweet,  faithful  trees  in 
all  their  newest  green.  They  would  be 
burned  too.  There  would  be  no  more 
sunrise  or  sunset.  This  was  the  last  day 
of  all,  and  not  only  should  we  burn,  but 
so,  too,  would  the  little  tender  leaves.  I 
dropped  on  my  face,  and  kept  saying 
56 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

softly  —  for  it  seemed  as  if  One  heard  as 
much  as  if  I  cried  aloud  —  "  Mighty  One, 
save  the  trees,  only  save  the  trees !  "  I 
did  not  know  to  whom  I  spoke,  but  I 
kept  on  saying  it  into  the  hot  earth ;  and 
presently  I  heard  a  great  shout  from  the 
throats  of  all  the  people.  I  rose  slowly 
to  my  knees,  to  my  feet,  and  everybody 
was  laughing  and  throwing  their  arms 
about  in  joy.  Still  they  were  looking 
up,  and  I  looked,  too ;  and  there,  in  the 
midst  of  the  burning  sky,  was  one  little 
cool,  clear  patch  of  blue,  as  large  as  a 
maple  leaf,  and  it  was  spreading  fast.  A 
fresh  wind  sprang  up  and  blew  from  the 
west ;  and  as  the  blue  spread,  little  white 
clouds  arose  and  danced  over  it.  Even 
before  we  could  get  used  to  so  great  a 
bliss,  the  heaven  was  all  blue  and  fleecy- 
winged,  and  the  happy  trees  rustled 
greenly. 

Again  I  dropped  adown  that  darkling 
sea  of  death  in  life,  and  rose  up  again  to 
find  myself  in  a  boat,  floating,  floating,  on 
57 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

the  wavelike  ripples  of  a  larger  lake.  So 
I  knew  it  was  the  sea.  I  was  near  the 
shore,  but  yet  not  going  in ;  and  as  I 
turned  my  eyes  that  way,  I  saw  a  height 
overhung  with  sky  so  blue  !  I  have  never 
seen  such  sky.  But  beneath  and  built 
upon  the  height  was  something  more 
radiant  than  the  sky  itself :  a  temple  with 
a  wilderness  of  columns  and  vistas  of 
columned  shade  within.  The  temple  was 
of  marble,  mellowed  and  creamy,  and 
rosy  also,  from  some  inner  light,  it  seemed 
to  me :  something  that  glowed  peren 
nially  and  generated  beauty  as  it  glowed. 
And  as  I  looked,  wonder-stricken  and 
alive  with  pure  delight,  one  of  the  col 
umns  melted  into  air,  and  in  the  larger 
space  it  gave,  stood  you,  my  lady,  clothed 
in  white  falling  in  folds  more  wonderful 
than  the  whorling  of  a  bud  within  its 
sheath.  You  held  a  cup,  and  reached  it 
to  me  with  a  smile  divinely  kind.  I  rose 
and  plunged ;  the  water  closed  over  me, 
and  sleep  enwrapped  me  over. 
58 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

And  then  again  I  rose,  and  I  knew  I 
was  in  Paradise ;  for  it  was  a  sunny  for 
est  of  newly-budded  trees,  and  I  heard 
strange  music  and  knew  you  would  be 
with  me  soon  and  that  all  would  be  infin 
itely  well  with  us  forever.  I  sank  back 
into  measureless  peace,  the  perfect  pa 
tience  of  waiting.  As  I  lay  there,  one 
came  toward  me,  and  although  I  could  not 
see  his  face,  I  knew,  this  is  an  angel !  He 
asked  me  some  question,  —  what,  I  can 
not  tell ;  but  I  was  in  love  with  my  pleas 
ure  of  mind,  and  told  him  what  was  only 
half  true.  (You  know  they  were  talking 
of  truth  and  lies  at  the  camp  the  other 
night,  and  I  was  puzzled.  Now  I  know 
what  it  is  to  tell  a  half-truth.)  But  as  I 
spoke,  the  leaves  of  the  trees  withered 
and  fell,  and  the  birds  left  their  contented 
harmony  and  began  screaming  in  discord. 
The  angel  was  gone,  and  I  knew  that 
heaven  was  destroyed,  and  I  had  done  it. 
I  woke,  grasping  my  arms  so  tightly  with 
either  hand  that  the  pressure  hurt.  I  was 
59 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

sobbing  for  breath.     But  I  was  alive,  and 
my  heaven  lay  yet  before  me. 

Have  I  done  well  ?  Here  have  I  writ 
ten  you  page  upon  page,  only  to  earn  a 
letter  in  return,  when  I  long  to  fill  these 
sheets  with  hot  protestations,  with  peti 
tions  for  your  gentle  ruth.  At  first  it 
was  enough  to  love  you.  At  first  ?  for 
the  instant  of  recognizing  my  royal  des 
tiny;  but  now  I  would  have  all.  Love 
me !  love  me !  my  heart  cries  and  cries, 
for  unless  you  know  me  for  your  own, 
what  shall  hinder  me  from  losing  you  in 
this  whirling  progress  of  the  days.  You 
will  go  away ;  I  heard  them  talking  about 
it  this  morning.  What  am  I  to  do  then, 
I  ask  you  ?  What  am  I  to  do  ?  Mateless, 
solitary,  left  in  the  nest  I  was  so  long  in 
building,  while  you  fly  south,  the  sun 
upon  your  shining  wings.  What  am  I  to 
do? 

60 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 


YOUR  last  letter  pleased  me  very  Zoe  Mont- 
well,  all  save  its  note  of  melancholy.  rose  to \ 
Byronism  is  out  of  fashion.  It  isn't 
vendible,  or  it  won't  be  in  a  few  years, 
mark  my  words.  In  the  time  that  is 
coming,  men-children  will  rise  up  in  liter 
ature  and  slash  and  slay  and  troll  out 
hearty  songs,  born  in  the  childhood  of  the 
race,  and  tell  us  of  the  love  of  woman, 
and  the  joy  of  martial  blows.  No  more 
splitting  of  psychological  hairs !  The 
reaction  is  coming,  and  I  thank  the  gods 
who  make  for  us  to  mar.  Moreover,  you 
were  hysterical  at  the  end.  Reform  it 
altogether.  No  woman  of  any  sense  of 
humor  was  ever  won  by  tears  in  the  man 
who  should  be  fighting  for  her.  Take 
Tristram  of  Brittany  for  your  model,  not 
some  laddie  who  should  be  in  petticoats. 
Else  you  will  never  win  fair  lady.  I 
speak  generally,  for  it  is  understood  from 
the  start  that  this  specific  fair  lady  is  not 
to  be  won  at  all.  Woo  her  you  may,  so 
61 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

you  do  it  amusingly,  robustly,  with  no 
whining  like  a  hungry  dog.  She  has 
little  heart  for  "crumbling  the  hounds 
their  messes."  Now  to  business.  I  lay 
my  commands  upon  you.  A  visitor  is 
coming  to  camp :  a  man.  While  he  is 
here,  I  shall  have  no  time  either  to  write 
or  read,  and  I  shall  not  visit  the  hollow 
tree.  Moreover,  you,  as  you  be  loyal  and 
true,  are  to  treat  him  fairly  and  kindly. 
If  you  hate  my  tendance  of  him  as  a 
stranger  and  a  guest,  you  are  to  be  only 
the  more  courteous.  In  short,  as  a  knight 
peerless,  you  are  to  suffer  manfully  and 
in  silence.  For  in  silence  lies  the  only 
true  dignity  left  us  by  the  chances  of  life. 
You  see  I  own  at  once  that  you  will 
suffer.  That  is  inevitable  ;  but  I  ask  you 
to  take  the  screw  like  a  gentleman. 
There  is  no  better  word  yet  made. 
62 


i 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 


AM  forbidden  to  write  her.     I  must   To  the 


speak  to  some  one,  to  something.  He  Unknown 
came  three  days  ago.  He  is  tall,  black- 
eyed,  with  a  laugh  that  rings.  When  I 
hear  that  laugh,  I  cannot  even  moisten 
my  dry  tongue.  I  have  learned  the 
meaning  of  hate.  Yesterday  she  ran  to 
the  spring  to  bring  him  a  glass  of  water. 
(He  lay  lazily  and  let  her.)  I  followed. 

"Is  that  the  man  you  said  you  might 
love  ?  "  I  whispered. 

It  looked  as  if  the  whisper  burned  her 
cheek.  She  turned  red  to  the  roots  of 
her  yellow  hair.  She  could  not  look  at 
me. 

"  Sir  Knight,"  she  said  at  last,  "  in  the 
world  we  do  not  ask  such  things." 

So  I  knew. 

As  to  my  manner,  I  think  I  have  obeyed 
her.  At  least,  I  have  been  silent.  But 
if  this  is  to  be  my  portion,  death  must 
come  soon.  For  all  my  body  is  under 
the  sway  of  this  great  trouble.  I  cannot 
63 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

eat.  My  hands  seem  helpless,  they  are 
so  cold.  My  throat  is  choked.  When 
have  I  slept  ?  I  think  my  father  knows, 
and,  though  I  cannot  speak  to  him,  un 
derstands,  if  a  man  for  whom  life  is  over 
can  ever  understand  one  at  the  beginning. 
Yet  how  can  he  ?  how  can  he  ?  For  my 
mother  loved  him,  and  gave  herself  to 
him.  There  is  in  all  the  world  no  sorrow 
like  this  of  mine.  To  stand  by  and  see 
another  man  help  her  into  the  boat  and 
row  away !  To  see  him  pin  a  flower  in 
her  hair  with  those  daring  hands  !  And 
I  would  have  died  to  do  it.  Yet  last 
night,  as  I  stormed  through  the  forest 
like  the  north  wind  that  hates  the  cling 
ing  leaves,  blind  in  the  darkness,  blind 
from  within,  —  and  only  through  some 
forest  instinct  keeping  myself  from  crash 
ing  into  tree  and  bush,  —  a  moment  of 
calm  enwrapped  me  as  quickly  as  if  a 
gossamer  veil  had  fallen  from  above.  I 
seemed  to  see  the  meaning  of  things,  the 
true  meaning  and  value.  That  he  should 
64 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

give  her  a  flower,  should  take  her  hand, 
should  win  her  smile  —  nay,  the  touch  of 
her  cheek,  her  lips  —  words  I  can  scarcely 
write,  even  here,  —  what  are  these  perish 
able  gifts  ?  Gauds  of  time  !  Did  some 
poet  say  that,  or  have  I  made  the  phrase  ? 
The  foolish  broidery  on  the  web  of  life, 
to  wear  and  wear  with  years  !  But  what 
lies  behind  to  engender  the  token  —  ah, 
that  is  the  eternal !  I  cannot  penetrate 
her  heart  to  see  the  living  thoughts  that 
thus  denote  themselves ;  but  I  know  my 
own.  I  challenge  time  itself  to  match 
them  with  a  brood  more  great.  My 
love,  my  faith  in  her,  my  sacrifice,  these 
are  giants,  springing  into  sudden  Titanic 
birth,  and  Homer's  heroes  are  pygmies  to 
them.  So  the  night  calmed  me,  and  I 
thanked  God  (did  I  ever  write  that  word 
before  ?  Did  I  ever  really  think  it  ?)  that 
my  soul  was  born.  But  in  the  morning 
the  mood  had  passed.  I  knew  still  what 
I  had  learned,  but  I  could  not  feel  it. 
My  father,  my  dear  father !  He  sits  all 
65 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

day  with  Homer  open  on  his  knee,  and  does 
not  read.  Once  after  the  others  had  been 
here,  and  he  saw  me  wince  when  she  and 
the  man  went  laughing  off  together,  he 
said  to  me,  almost  as  if  he  were  afraid  to 
say  it :  — 

"  Don't  overestimate  the  little  familiar 
ities  of  social  life."  He  said  it,  but  I 
could  not  answer. 


WELL  — child!    (You   are  nothing 
more  —  nothing  !)     Our  guest  has 


Zoe  Mont- 
rose  to 

Hume  g°ne-  Now  let  us  hope  you  will  straight 
way  begin  to  get  back  your  color.  You 
look  like  the  travesty  of  Hope  Deferred. 
Dress  you  for  Pierrot,  and  you  'd  serve 
well  for  the  ghost  of  youthful  folly.  But 
you  have  behaved  excellently.  Socially 
speaking,  you  have  watched  beside  your 
arms.  Consider  yourself  knighted.  Shall 
I  tell  you  a  secret  ?  The  Forest  of  Arden 
is  not  a  proper  trysting-place  for  folk  who 
have  met  in  the  town  ;  at  least,  if  one  of 
66 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

them  has  been  learning  the  sweet  direct 
ness  of  the  woods.  For  I,  whom  this 
man  somewhat  enchains  and  always  did, 
—  when  I  saw  him  among  the  trees,  I 
knew  he  was  very  worldly  and  a  trifle 
fat !  And  he  does  not  swim  well.  And 
he  slept  o'  mornings,  and  I  could  not  help 
thinking  of  you  wandering  —  albeit  like  a 
zany  whose  bauble  is  hid  —  in  the  dewy 
brake.  Understand  plainly,  you  are  at 
this  moment  dear  to  me.  The  thought 
of  you  is  sweet  as  Endymion  to  Diana ; 
yet  I  who  am  no  Dian,  but  a  poor  fin  de 
sttcle  spinster,  her  being  distorted  by 
culture,  would  withdraw  from  you  were 
you  here,  as  the  chaste  huntress  from 
Actaeon.  I  like  you ;  but  I  mean  nothing 
by  the  saying,  nothing,  nothing !  Nay, 
an  I  said  "  I  love,"  it  would  be  but  lightly, 
as  if  we  were  both  in  a  little  play  :  a  play 
which  nobody  wrote,  and  no  man  saw 
acted,  and  which  the  actors  themselves 
will  speedily  forget.  Think  of  the  thistle- 
downiest  thing  you  ever  saw,  the  most 
67 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

fleeting :  the  glow  that  rises  in  the  sun 
set  sky  and  flees  before  the  sight.  That 
is  what  I  mean  when  I  say  you  are  dear 
to  me.  Do  not  make  me  repent  having 
said  it 


Francis        TUNE  was  it,  June,  sweet  mistress  of  the 

fzZ      J    f  chansins  yfiar> 

Montrose      ""      ^^e  °^  ^e  brow  serene,  unpressed  by 

cypress  fear, 

Nor  darkened  under  bitter  bud  and  leaf 
By  earth's  old  travail  and  the  gray  world's 

grief,  — 

Delighted  by  her  changeful  diadem 
And  fringed  with  roses  round  her  mantle 

hem,) 

Who  laid  thy  hand  in  mine, 
And  said,  with  voice  divine, 
Like  low-toned  winds  that  wander  to  and  fro 
Searching  out  reedy  pipes  wherein  to  blow : 
"  This  is  your  sacrament. 
Drink  ye,  and  be  content. 
This  is  life's  flowering. 
Now  are  ye  queen  and  king." 
68 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

O  thought  too  poor  and  pale ! 
O  words  that  wanly  fail 
For  godlike  Love's  divine  expressing, 
And  all  the  rhythm  of  his  sweet  confess 
ing, 

Whose  full-voiced  cry  should  be 
Harmonious  ecstasy. 

Now  are  ye  rulers  of  the  upper  air ; 

And  though  men  surge  below,  not  one  shall 

dare 

To  scale  the  summit  of  your  mystic  height, 
Nor  breathe  your  breath,  nor  face  your  burn 
ing  light. 
The  seed  shall  break  for  you,  the  seasons 

pass, 

And  you,  serene,  shall  view  as  in  a  glass 
The  moving  pageant  of  the  happy  year, 
Fleeting  from  naked  twig  and  garment  sere, 
To  wrap  itself  in  snows,  to  dream  and  dream 
On  budding   boughs,  and   all  the   elusive 

gleam 

Of  happy  rivers  kissed 
By  sweet,  bewildering  mist. 
And  so  to  dream  again,  and  rise  in  power 
To  the  full  glory  of  a  new  birth-hour. 
69 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

The  earth  is  thine,  the  starry  spaces  even, 
The  hour  is   thine,   and    maketh    its   own 
heaven  — 


I  to  write  a  marriage  song,  I !  Shall 
mortal  man  hymn  worthily  his  own  love  ? 
Yet  here  is  the  initial  note,  the  first  faint 
stammering.  Remember  this,  my  love, 
my  lady,  my  soul,  —  if  I  had  known  what 
your  consent  would  be,  I  could  never 
have  waited  for  it  all  these  years,  here 
in  the  still  woods.  I  should  have  died  of 
hunger.  Think  of  it !  one  only  can  bring 
bread  for  me,  one  only  give  me  to  drink. 
Be  merciful  to  me,  my  bread-giver !  One 
word  —  not  on  paper !  One  minute  —  let 
me  see  you  alone ! 


Zoe  Mont-    T~^\O  not  write  verse  until  you  fail  to 
rose  to         \_J   express  yourself  in  prose.     Verse 
should  glide  full-winged  over  the  surface 
of  the  waters  where  the  spirit  of  God  lies 
sleeping.     It  should  deal  carelessly  with 
70 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

poor  things  like  prepositions  and  pro 
nouns.  They  are  but  the  spray-bubbles 
beaten  back  by  its  wings.  Your  smaller 
words  are  staffs  falling  as  regularly  and 
heavily  as  a  tread  on  a  board  walk.  Your 
phrases  march  ;  they  do  not  fly.  You 
will  say  that  these  lines  were  written  un 
der  a  pressure  of  strong  emotion ;  but 
that 's  no  reason.  So  might  a  prosy  di 
vine  put  forth  his  religion  as  an  excuse 
for  prosing.  Have  your  emotion,  but 
keep  it  to  yourself  if  you  can  express  it 
no  better  than  this.  It  is  neither  "  mag- 
nifique"  nor  is  it  —  literature.  Nor  does 
your  prose  entirely  please  me.  Look 
how  it  is  tinged  with  its  own  sweetness. 
Everything  is  superlative.  You  are  not 
content  to  say  a  thing  in  one  way ;  you 
must  say  it  in  three,  and  then  overload 
it  with  metaphor  till  the  understanding 
balks  at  it.  You  write  like  this  :  — 

"  The  night  burned  clear,  illumined  by 
a  million  stars.     Memory  was  with  me, 
and  love;  they,  the  divine.     I  was  rest- 
71 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

less ;  I  could  not  sleep.  I  came  out 
of  my  chamber,  impatient,  praying  for 
dawn." 

Your  images  hunt  in  couples,  and  it 
won't  do,  save  in  the  Psalms.  Simplicity, 
simplicity  !  that  must  be  our  aim.  That 
makes  a  sentence  read  as  if  it  had  stood 
immemorially,  as  if  it  formed  an  integral 
part  of  the  Creator's  speech  when  He 
overlooked  His  work  and  found  it  good. 
(You  see  I  fall  into  your  trick  of  repeated 
images.  Indeed,  it  is  one  of  the  queer 
coincidences  of  fate  that  our  phrasing 
should  be  much  alike.)  This  same  sim 
plicity  it  is  which  shall  make  Ruskin  a 
monument  of  white,  like  an  angel  with 
carven  wings,  when  Sartor  Resartus  lies 
howling,  with  none  so  poor  to  patch  him. 
Ah  !  and  by  the  way  —  very  much  by 
the  way  —  don't  be  feverish  again.  Don't 
take  my  idle  words  of  last  time  for  more 
than  they  are  worth.  I  told  you  they 
meant  nothing.  When  will  you  believe  ? 
72 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

THEIR  nothing  is  my  all.  You  have  Francis 
declared  it.  The  words  lie  in  my 
hand.  Discourse  to  a  man  upon  rhet 
oric,  when  your  own  letter  says,  "You 
are  dear  to  me  "  !  We  will  talk  this  out. 
We  will,  I  say.  If  not  alone,  before 
them  all.  Come  into  the  woods  with  me 
to-night  at  nine,  and  with  only  the  dark 
for  witness  you  shall  swear  to  me  love  — 
or  denial. 


w 


AS  it  a  week  ago  we  spoke  to-  zoe  Mont- 
gether  there   by  the  rock,   and  rose  to 

Franci 
Hume 


have  you  changed  me  so  ?     I  told  you     ranct* 


that  night  I  half  thought  —  I  was  very 
sure  —  I  cared,  and  then  I  seemed  to  lose 
my  power  of  mocking  you.  Our  places 
are  changed.  You  do  not  know  it,  but 
I  no  longer  command ;  I  am  beginning, 
the  real  I  that  sits  within  me,  to  obey. 
Your  ways  are  so  sweet,  so  tender,  your 
truth  so  single,  your  chivalry  so  great ! 
73 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

I  am  learning  to  lean  on  your  fair  service 
as  it  were  an  arm.  O,  but  if  I  am  to 
love  you,  make  me  good  !  I  wish  I  were 
what  you  would  have  me  be.  I  am  not ! 
I  am  not !  How  soon  will  you  learn  it  ? 
They  talk  about  a  maiden's  mind,  a  fair 
white  page ;  mine  is  all  tracked  with  ugly 
marks.  I  am  blonde,  young,  pretty,  but 
I  am  haggard  and  yellow  within.  Not 
bad,  you  know,  dear ;  but  not  the  she 
you  should  have  loved.  Full  of  worldli- 
ness,  cynicism,  incapacity  for  being  de 
ceived  ;  there 's  not  a  spontaneous  thing 
about  me.  Yet,  peradventure,  my  only 
hope  is  that  I  see  your  beauty  and  love 
it.  No  more  of  this,  so  long  as  we  two 
live.  Love  me  while  you  can,  and  be 
lieve  it  is  my  unhappiness  that  I  have 
lived  too  much. 


Francis       TV   /T  Y   LADY,  —  It  was   a  perverse 


Hume  mood  that  conceive(i  your  ietten 

to  Zoe  ,    J 

Montrose     And  if  you  had  no  perversity,  no  pretty 

74 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS  YOUTH 

whims,  where  should  we  all  be  ?  On  a 
dead  level  of  discontent.  I  love  the 
sweet  humility  of  it.  Not  that  I  would 
have  you  keep  to  that;  it  would  never 
befit  my  sovereign  lady.  But  for  an  idle 
moment  of  a  summer's  day,  't  is  like  fool 
ing  in  masquerade.  Why,  you  are  queen 
of  me,  and  queen  of  my  great  heart ! 
(Aye,  I  do  swear  with  the  biggest  oaths  I 
know  that 't  is  a  great  heart ;  for  otherwise 
were  to  do  you  some  despite.  Did  you 
not  create  it  ?  "  Let  there  be  love,"  said 
you,  and  straightway  my  heart  was  born.) 
Do  people  always  take  it  so  seriously 
when  other  people  say  they  are  going  to 
marry  ?  What  was  that  unguarded  speech 
of  Mrs.  Montrose's  :  — 

"  Zoe,  Zoe,  why  did  n't  you  let  that  boy 
alone  ? " 

O,  I  heard  it,  but  I  forgive  her !  She 
wots  not  of  our  kingdom.  What  should 
a  woman  with  false  hair  and  fat  hands 
know  about  the  divine  foreknowledge  of 
a  heart  in  finding  its  mate  ?  And  my 
75 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

father  ?  Why  is  he  sadder  every  day  ? 
He  has  not  lost  me.  He  had  gained  you  ; 
and  he  owns  you  are  sweet  and  blithe  and 
fair  beyond  compare. 

Later  :  What  do  you  think  has  hap 
pened  ?  I  am  to  go  back  with  you,  and 
my  father  himself  proposed  it !  I  could 
wake  all  the  echoes  in  the  hills  with  joy. 
I  shall  never  walk  any  more.  I  shall 
run  and  dance.  What  will  your  world 
think  of  that,  —  your  world  of  men  and 
women  ?  Even  that  my  father  takes 
it  sadly  does  not  move  me  overmuch, 
though  I  wish  he  saw  the  joy  of  behv  . 
(How  full  it  is,  O,  how  full !  And  you 
have  brought  me  the  cup.  I  will  drink 
carefully,  sweetheart,  though  so  greedily. 
I  will  not  spill  a  drop.)  He  said  to  me, 
"You  must  know  something  of  life  be 
fore  you  make  new  ties  and  take  respon 
sibilities.  So  you  must  go  out  into  the 
world.  Mrs.  Montrose  is  a  good  woman. 
She  will  be  your  teacher  in  social  walks, 
and  she  will  introduce  you  to  some  men 
76 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

I  knew  long  ago.  I  can't  give  you  defi 
nite  plans.  You  would  n't  follow  them  if 
I  did."  When  I  asked  him  if  he  would 
go,  too,  he  said,  "  No,  not  yet."  It  was 
best  for  me  to  cut  loose  from  him  for  a 
time. 

So,  fine  sweetheart !  I  am  going  back 
with  you  to  your  city.  We  are  not  to  be 
separated  for  a  single  day :  perhaps  not 
until  the  hour  when  you  stand  up  be 
fore  your  people  and  swear  to  cleave  to 
me  only.  I  read  that  service  yesterday, 
alone  in  the  woods.  Gods  !  how  great  it 
is  !  and  yet  not  great  enough.  I  would 
not  have  it  "till  death."  It  should  cover 
the  abyss  —  and  hell.  Do  you  remember 
to  think  with  every  breath  you  draw  how 
a  man  loves  you  ?  how  he  would  fain  have 
you  his  breath,  that  he  might  draw  you 
into  his  very  veins  ?  Ah,  what  words 
are  there  for  the  telling  ?  How  poverty- 
stricken  are  we  that  there  should  be  no 
way  to  make  you  mine  save  by  swearing 
oaths !  If  I  could  give  you  my  blood  — 
77 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

but  even  that  is  less  dear  to  me  than  one 
instant  in  your  presence.  If  I  could  sac 
rifice  the  dearest  thing  I  have  —  yet  that 
would  not  be  life  itself ;  it  would  be  you. 
Sacrifice  you  to  love,  to  prove  I  love  you  ! 
What  wisdom  were  in  that  ? 


Zoe  Mont*    IpvEAR,  —  Step  back  before  it  is  too 

rose  to  LJ 


Hume  £°°d  lies  tnat  wav-  Why  should  you  leave 
your  happy  island  for  the  grimy  streets  ? 
There  is  strange  irony,  too,  in  your  set 
ting  off  with  us,  such  wayworn  travelers. 
So  might  a  spangled  troup  of  weary  play 
ers  entice  a  sleepy  child  that  had  only 
known  the  lambs  and  birds,  and  lain  on 
fragrant  hay,  to  take  some  part  in  their 
ghastly  mummery.  What  should  be  his 
fate  ?  footsore,  bewildered,  to  fall  beside 
a  wayside  ditch,  and  gasp  his  breath  out 
in  the  dusty  fern.  Go  back  !  I  '11  none 
of  you.  I  won't  take  the  responsibility 
of  your  shining  soul.  Stay  here,  and 
78 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

write  the  story  of  your  island.  Tell  the 
weary  old  world  what  the  leaves  whisper 
and  how  the  flower-buds  open.  And 
folks  will  smile  the  vacuous  smile  of  igno 
rant  criticism,  and  say,  "O,  yes,  we  all 
knew  it  before !  "  Then  perhaps  your 
Virginia  will  come,  and  you  may  die  in 
each  other's  arms.  For  you  have  n't  the 
fortunate  palm,  my  boy ;  you  have  n't 
the  look  of  luck.  They  that  make  us 
have  ordained  you  to  grief,  and  I  would 
for  forty  shillings  that  your  slaughter 
came  not  through  me.  I  will  go  to  town. 
You  shall  send  me  your  manuscripts,  I  will 
find  a  publisher,  and  we  will  write  each 
other  letters  —  so  friendly,  so  friendly  — 
and  when  you  die  with  Virginia  I  will 
come  to  the  woods  and  sit  by  your  grave, 
and  sing  you  little  songs  in  remembrance 
of  the  love  that  was  not  to  be  mine.  So 
fare  you  well ;  and  I  wish  you  only  f or- 
getfulness. 

79 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

Francis       T^AREWELL !  I  stop  in  my  packing 
t"™oe  to  lauSn-     I  've  begun  to  sing  the 

Montrost  word,  to  whistle  little  tunes  to  its  rhythm. 
Aye,  mistress,  we  will  fare  well,  but  we 
fare  together !  It  has  just  occurred  to 
me  that  my  packing  is  very  queer  in 
deed  :  violin,  gun,  my  few  dearest  books, 
and  almost  no  clothes.  For  my  father 
says  camp  clothes,  however  new,  won't 
wear  the  air  of  town,  and  my  tailor  must 
be  my  first  friend.  Farewell,  indeed ! 
Can  you  toss  a  bridegroom  a  two-sylla 
bled  word  over  your  shoulder,  and  turn 
him  back  at  the  door  of  the  church  ? 
What  is  a  church  like?  Is  it  true  the 
aisles  are  forest  vistas  ?  So  the  books 
say.  O,  the  great  race  of  men,  to  have 
put  nature  into  wood  and  stone ! 
80 


i 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

THE  TREMONT  HOUSE,  BOSTON. 

AM  here,  exactly  where  you  told  me  Francis 

to  go,  though  Mrs.  Montrose  asked  Hume 

,.   ,.  .  ,  .  to  Ernest 

me  very  cordially,  again  and  again,  to 
make  my  home  with  her.  In  front  of 
the  hotel  is  a  noisy,  rattling  street,  full 
of  madness,  clamor,  and  delight.  (I  said 
this  to  Zoe,  and  she  laughed  herself  faint. 
"  Intoxicated  by  a  Boston  street !  "  said 
she.  "Wait  till  you  see  Paris.")  At  the 
side  of  the  hotel  is  a  yard  full  of  graves, 
with  little  stones,  row  upon  row.  O,  so 
many  graves  !  I  realize  what  multitudes 
of  men  have  died,  and  how  old  the  world 
must  be.  I  thought  of  it  last  night,  and 
it  bore  upon  me  so,  grave  upon  grave  — 
and  all  the  unnumbered  dead  of  all  the 
wars  —  and  I  rose  to  look  from  my  win 
dow  into  the  busy,  lighted  night,  and 
think  of  men.  How  they  seethe  here  in 
crowds.  How  they  hurry  up  and  down, 
each  in  his  little  world,  king  of  that 
alone,  and  alien  to  his  brother.  It  is  so 
81 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

strange.  I  think  I  should  die  of  loneli 
ness  if  I  had  not  brought  my  own  with 
me.  But  does  any  one  sleep  ?  There  is 
no  air ! 

O  father,  why  are  you  not  here !  We 
went  to  the  theatre  to  see  a  woman  —  I 
told  you  we  were  going.  I  never  so 
longed  for  speech.  If  only  I  might  de 
scribe  her,  even  half  worthily!  I  send 
you  a  package  of  photographs,  all  I  can 
find,  but  they  stammer  and  halt  as  I  do. 
First,  she  is  tall,  very  tall,  I  think,  and 
there  is  in  her  a  strange  mingling  of  an 
gularity  and  the  divinest  grace.  She 
seems  to  have  members  like  another,  but 
the  most  perfect  genius  and  harmony  in 
the  use  of  them.  Her  hand  is  gracious, 
large;  it  has  not  that  subtile  outline  of 
Zoe's,  but  she  uses  it  as  an  instrument 
potent  for  beauty.  Her  head  is  not  set 
proudly,  her  shoulders  are  not  like  the 
pine-tree,  and  Mrs.  Montrose  tells  me 
her  clothes  are  wrinkled  and  sometimes 
frayed  at  the  seams.  But  her  face !  All 
82 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

the  Graces  strove  for  mastery,  and  threw 
their  gifts  at  her  in  a  blind  contention,  so 
that  none  of  them  agree.  They  simply 
strive  together  like  a  company  of  angels, 
ill-assorted,  and  give  you  the  effect  of  a 
lovely  surprise.  Her  brows  are  full  of 
pathos.  Between  them  there  is  ever  a 
little  irregular  frown ;  and  her  eyes  look 
out  beneath,  imploring,  piteous,  saying, 
"I  have  lost  my  way.  Will  somebody 
tell  me  where  to  go  ?  "  And  her  mouth  ! 
O,  the  merriest  mouth,  made  for  joy, 
made  for  light  words  and  blithest  laugh 
ter  !  Her  hair  is  dancing  yellow,  and 
she  herself  dances,  her  spirit  most  of  all. 
I  have  felt  joy,  but  I  never  saw  it  until 
now.  Zoe  laughs  at  me,  and  opens  her 
eyes  because  I  have  begun  to  talk  of  good 
and  bad,  of  beauty  and  ugliness.  She 
says  I  am  too  apt.  It  is  true  that  I  have 
done  little  but  study  faces  since  I  came. 
Many  are  like  animals.  Some  I  love; 
some  I  hate  at  once.  I  have  seen  three 
persons  who  are  deformed,  with  humps 
83 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

on  their  backs.  They  have  a  strange  old 
look,  with  a  queer  brightness  in  the  eyes  ; 
and  when  I  catch  that  look  on  those  who 
are  straight  and  well,  I  wonder  if  they 
are  deformed  in  the  soul.  But  whoever 
else  is  to  be  shrunk  from,  my  player-lady 
is  all-worthy.  As  I  saw  her  fleet  about 
the  stage,  buoyant  in  joy  and  then  mad 
dened  by  grief  unspeakable,  I  did  not  see 
her  alone.  I  caught  glimpses  of  Shake 
speare's  women,  for  she  had  a  trace  of 
them  all :  Portia,  full-winged  for  justice ; 
Juliet,  passion-doomed;  Imogen,  your  love 
of  loves ;  but  most  of  all  Beatrice,  the 
iris-spirit,  and  Ophelia,  piteously  undone. 
Then  I  remembered,  "A  star  danced," 
and  hot  tears  burned  my  eyes.  Father, 
how  do  we  live  when  we  feel  so  much  ? 
And  the  world,  so  great,  so  piercing  in 
its  beauty  —  how  it  presses  upon  us ! 
Yet  I  suppose  there  must  be  a  certain 
habit  of  inner  control;  for  though  it  is 
beautiful  to  Zoe,  she  does  not  ache  as  I 
do.  No,  she  laughs.  I  must  get  the 
84 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

habit  of  laughter.  But  you  see  I  have 
been  up  all  night,  thinking  of  this  woman 
and  the  world  she  opens  to  me;  of  her 
and  the  woman  I  love.  Of  Zoe  I  think 
always,  father ;  but  you  know  I  could  n't 
write  that.  No  man  could,  could  he  ? 

...  I  have  been  to  church.  It  is 
strangely  disappointing.  Of  the  church  it 
self  it  is  not  necessary  to  speak.  It  seems 
there  are  no  great  cathedrals  here ;  I  had 
not  realized  that.  The  music  was  fine, 
but  faint ;  I  found  I  had  expected  not  a 
quartette  but  a  chorus,  a  multitude  prais 
ing  God.  Then  the  clergyman  spoke.  It 
was  very  vague  and  very  long.  It  seemed 
to  me  unnecessary  for  him  to  have  writ 
ten  anything,  when  he  might  have  read 
Emerson  or  Ruskin.  I  forgot  him,  after 
a  time,  and  began  to  think  of  Lone  Moun 
tain  and  the  rhythm  of  the  wind  over  the 
firs.  The  sermon  was  something  about 
St.  John's  visions  and  the  church.  It 
seemed  to  me  belittling,  as  if  a  primer 
should  be  written  to  explain  the  gods. 
85 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

But  perhaps  I  have  to  get  the  habit  of 
church-going  also. 

I  have  been  introduced  to  dozens  of 
people.  Dozens?  let  me  say  hundreds. 
They  are  very  kind.  You  ask  me  to 
speak  frankly  of  civilized  life.  Frankly 
then,  these  people  we  meet  in  battalions 
I  do  not  like.  That  is,  I  might  like  them 
individually  if  they  appeared  under  a  dif 
ferent  system  ;  but  society  seems  to  me 
an  intricate  sort  of  game  which  anybody 
could  play,  but  which  is  very  puzzling  to 
the  onlooker  and  not  in  the  least  worth 
learning.  For  example,  their  conversa 
tion  :  a  great  deal  of  it  is  mere  personal 
ity,  and  they  only  speak  of  a  certain  set. 
That  may  be  a  truism.  I  have  appar 
ently  said  that  they  do  not  talk  of  the 
people  they  do  not  know  because  they 
only  talk  of  the  people  they  know.  But 
I  find  there  are  such  different  ways  of 
talking.  People  seem  to  be  in  groups,  and 
each  group  is  labeled.  I  am  in  the  smart 
set !  I  fancy  some  of  them  consider  the 
86 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

persons  who  play  and  sing  and  write 
books  (that  is  unless  they  don't  do  it 
particularly  well)  as  a  class  of  beings 
made  for  their  amusement;  and  if  it  is 
necessary  to  speak  of  scientists  or  diplo 
mats,  they  do  it  with  a  certain  languid 
interest,  and  then  put  them  aside  in  a 
drawer.  There  is  a  great  deal  of  philan 
thropy,  but  it  is  not  what  I  thought  about 
love  of  man,  when  I  read  the  old  stories 
of  the  saints  and  those  greater  than  saints 
who  came  to  redeem.  It  does  not  look 
like  love;  for  love  draws  one  nearer, 
clasps  its  arms  about  one ;  is  it  not  so  ? 
This  is  a  kind  of  business  appointed  for 
certain  days  in  the  week,  just  as  one 
attends  church  on  Sunday.  They  "go 
down "  to  obscure  streets  and  visit,  and 
they  even  make  reports  afterwards ;  but 
it  is  something  like  the  German  lessons 
three  times  a  week  or  the  piano  practice 
every  day.  But  who  am  I  to  blame 
them  ?  I  have  walked  through  the  poorer 
streets.  I  have  looked  boldly  into  the 
87 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

faces  there,  and,  father,  I  hate  them.  I 
would  not  touch  them  for  worlds,  those 
deformed,  dirty,  ugly,  loathsome  crea 
tures.  They  are  so  unbeautiful !  And 
there  surely  can  be  no  need  of  that. 
They  might  at  least  have  the  beauty  of 
cleanliness  and  of  lovely  thoughts.  Ap 
parently  I  cannot  get  the  habit  of  phi 
lanthropy,  however  well  I  may  do  with 
church-going.  For  how  can  we  help  be 
ing  repulsed  by  what  is  repulsive?  As 
well  expect  the  bees  to  seek  carrion  in 
stead  of  roses.  But  what  do  the  books 
mean  when  they  talk  about  love  of  men  ? 
The  more  men  need  love,  the  less  one 
can  love  them.  Write  me,  father.  I  feel 
as  if  I  should  know  a  different  side  of 
you  through  your  letters. 

Later :   O,  I  am  glad  I  came,  if  only 
for  this  one  thing  —  a  little  cat,  a  little 
mangled  cat,  gaunt,  wounded,  dying.     I 
killed  her  —  mercifully. 
88 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

DEAR  FRIEND,  —  Only  a  word,  to  Mrs.Mont- 
save  my  honor :  for  we  lunch  and  rose  to 
tea  and  dine  with  the  world  to-day.  Your 
barbarian  is  more  than  perfect.  He  has 
become  a  social  sovereign,  sweeping  all 
before  him ;  and  he  does  n't  even  know 
it.  He  stands  there  in  a  circle  of  pretty 
girls  and  strenuous  spinsters,  looks  at 
them  gravely  with  those  great  soft  eyes, 
answers  their  questions,  and  walks  away 
in  absolute  unconsciousness.  He  says 
people  are  so  kind.  On  the  contrary, 
they  are  enraptured  with  his  beauty  and 
his  miraculous  truth-telling.  And  I  begin 
to  think  Zoe  may  really  be  in  love  with 
him.  If  nobody  interferes  with  them, 
perhaps  they  '11  make  a  model  Darby  and 
Joan. 


DEAR  SON,  —  So  you  don't  love  the  Ernest 
poor !     Well,  don't  force  it.    They  Hume  to 

.....  J     Francis 

are  not  invariably  beautiful.     Don  t  trou-  Hume 
89 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

ble  about  them  until  you  have  found 
out  why  they  haven't  Greek  profiles,  as 
a  rule,  and  why  they  sometimes  fail  in 
expressing  their  lovely  thoughts.  Why 
did  the  cat  appeal  to  you  ?  Yet  she 
was  n't  beautiful.  Something  had  maimed 
her.  That  might  be  the  case  with  two- 
legged  creatures  also.  I  have  been  think 
ing  about  you  a  lot.  In  fact,  for  the  last 
twenty  years  there  has  n't  been  anything 
else  for  me  to  think  about,  except  what  is 
gone.  And  that  is  a  chapter  by  itself. 
But  I  want  to  tell  you  this  :  if  you  are  in 
a  tight  place  of  any  sort,  moral  or  finan 
cial,  come  to  me,  and  I  shall  be  grateful. 
I  'm  older,  and  I  have  lived  in  the  world. 
I  don't  want  to  be  a  prig  and  hamper  you 
with  moral  maxims ;  but  if  you  need  me, 
I  want  to  be  there.  Moreover,  I  want 
you  to  grapple  alone  with  life.  That's 
the  only  way.  To  catch  systematically 
at  another  swimmer  is  to  weaken  your 
self  and  perhaps  go  down,  —  as  I  did, 
though  not  for  the  same  reason.  I  went 
90 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

down  because  I  never  was  a  strong  swim 
mer  in  the  beginning,  and  then  I  didn't 
go  in  for  training.  Enough  of  metaphor. 
I  've  a  sort  of  legacy,  though,  to  give  you. 
I  was  thinking  last  night  what  a  shame 
it  is  that  we  never  have  a  fair  show  with 
temptation,  because  a  temptation  is  a 
thing  that's  never  recognized  until  you 
see  its  back:  like  the  hill-wives.  But 
this  you  may  remember;  if  something 
seems  particularly  enticing  to  you,  and 
you  say,  "It  wouldn't  do  for  all  the 
world  to  take  this,  but  it  will  do  for  me," 
draw  back.  That  is  mirage.  If  you  begin 
to  shield  yourself  behind  what  the  great 
souls  have  done,  that,  too,  is  mirage.  The 
great  souls  are  never  so  little  as  in  for 
saking  law  for  license.  Do  not  despise 
what  convention  has  decreed,  unless  you 
know  it  to  be  trivial  and  false.  The  gen 
eral  consensus  of  mankind  really  means 
something.  A  hot-headed  and  hot-hearted 
youngling  in  revolt  against  harness  is 
pretty  sure  to  get  a  galled  back — and 
91 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

nothing  else.  Pin  yourself  to  law ;  only 
make  sure  that  the  law  is  the  highest 
possible.  So  much  for  Polonius.  Now, 
your  legacy ;  and  now  I  have  to  write 
things  almost  too  sacred  to  be  written, 
and  that  never  could  be  said.  I  have  al 
ways  talked  to  you  about  your  mother, 
because  you  have  a  right  to  know  her ; 
but  her  loss  is  so  fresh,  that  every  word 
still  hurts.  She  was  probably  the  most 
rounded,  the  purest,  the  most  crystalline 
nature  ever  made.  Her  perfection  could 
never  have  been  exceeded.  Perhaps  Imo 
gen  only  was  her  equal.  Have  you  ever 
thought  what  it  must  have  been  to  such 
a  woman  to  conceive  and  bear  a  child  ? 
She  loved  me.  Our  life  was  as  perfect 
as  her  desert.  Now  I  know  the  thoughts 
—  all  she  could  tell  even  me  —  of  that 
girl-mother  every  day  of  all  the  weeks  be 
fore  your  birth.  There  is  no  word  —  at 
least  from  me  —  fine  enough  to  describe 
the  course  of  that  holy  rapture.  There 
is  in  a  woman's  love  a  certain  joy  in  the 
92 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

pain  which  is  borne  for  love's  sake,  a 
certain  ecstasy  of  renunciation  which  no 
man  ever  feels.  That  once  I  saw  it 
pictured.  I  veil  my  face.  She  was  not 
only  divinely  happy  because  you  were 
coming ;  she  became  divinely  holy.  Her 
child  seemed  to  be  a  sacrifice  to  present 
to  God,  —  her  God  was  very  living,  very 
near  her,  —  and  she  had  resolved  that  he 
should  be  a  perfect  gift.  She  heard  the 
most  beautiful  music,  and  clothed  herself 
in  the  finest  fabrics.  She  had  her  room 
hung  with  angelic  faces,  where  her  eyes 
could  open  first  upon  them  in  the  morn 
ing.  Those  are  the  pictures  that  hang  in 
our  cabin.  I  could  never  tell  you  why  I 
chose  them.  Mona  Lisa  was  banished, 
though  she  loved  her,  too.  But  she  said, 
"He  shall  have  the  simplicity  of  God; 
he  shall  not  bear  the  beauty  of  the 
world."  She  read  the  most  wonderful 
books  then,  the  simplest,  the  most  ex 
alted.  I  have  tried  to  remember  her 
choice  among  them,  and  it  seems  to  me 
93 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

now  that  she  chose  always  what  had  the 
wisdom  of  truth  and  love,  and  that  she 
shrank  from  the  sparkling  and  clever.  I 
cannot  tell  you  all  her  thoughts  about 
you,  nor  all  her  hopes.  For,  indeed,  the 
confidences  were  mine,  and  near  as  you 
are  to  me,  she  is  nearer.  Perhaps  I  could 
never  have  told  you  if  you  had  not  be 
gun  to  see  what  it  is  to  love  a  woman. 
But  the  substance  of  it  all  seems  to  be 
this  :  she  loved  you  before  she  saw  you ; 
she  worshiped  the  very  thought  of  your 
coming.  She  seemed  to  feel  that  she 
was  not  a  passive  instrument  chosen  to 
bring  you  into  the  world.  (You  see  I 
speak  personally  now  of  the  Unknowable. 
It  is  because  she  did  so.  To  her,  all  the 
powers  that  fashion  and  rule  were  blended 
in  One,  and  He  was  warm  and  living,  and 
she  loved  Him.  Yet  her  idea  was  not 
anthropomorphic.  It  was  colossal.  This 
was  and  is  incomprehensible  to  me ;  but 
I  am  trying  now  to  enter  her  habit  of 
mind.)  A  passive  instrument,  did  I 
94 


THE   DAY   OF    HIS   YOUTH 

write  ?  She  was,  in  a  way,  your  creator. 
The  vital  spark  came  from  her  God 
through  love  and  her,  and  she  would  not 
hamper  it  by  any  earthly  clogs  of  grovel 
ing  inheritance.  Well  —  her  watching 
upon  her  arms  was  over.  She  saw  her 
son.  And  then  she  gave  him  to  me  to 
finish  her  work,  and  died.  Now  the 
knowledge  of  her  great  love  and  expecta 
tion  seems  to  belong  to  you,  and  I  have 
only  this  to  say  :  If  you  feel  yourself 
getting  a  little  dusty  in  life,  think  what 
should  be  expected  of  one  who  was  so 
loved,  so  waited  for.  You  are  of  royal 
stock  ;  for  you  were  born  of  a  woman  so 
perfect  that  sometimes  I  wonder  now  if 
I  have  not  imagined  her.  But  I  have  not. 
She  was  real.  We  do  not  guess  out 
things  so  beautiful.  God  —  It  —  Nature 
—  makes  them,  and  then  we  describe 
them  in  verse  or  music,  and  people  say 
we  create.  Don't  speak  to  me  of  this; 
only  make  use  of  it  when  the  time  comes. 
There  is  n't  much  to  tell  you  about 
95 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

camp.  I  do  many  of  the  same  old  things. 
Perhaps  I  shall  go  to  you ;  for  sometimes 
I  think  you  will  not  want  to  come  back. 
Pierre  misses  you. 


To  the  T  HATE  vulgarity!  Mrs.  Montrose 
Unknown  J[  seems  to  be  a  very  good  woman,  but 
she  is  vulgar.  Why,  when  women  are 
middle-aged  and  portly,  do  they  feel  at 
liberty  to  make  rude  personal  speeches  ? 
She  said  to  me  yesterday  :  — 

"  If  you  want  to  marry  Zoe,  marry  her 
soon."  I  was  angry ;  I  could  only  look 
at  her.  She  laughed,  but  she  did  flush. 
"  Don't  glare  at  me,  Ingomar,"  said  she. 
"  I  'm  speaking  for  your  good.  It  is  n't 
well  for  you  to  marry  her,  but  somehow 
you  're  the  kind  of  a  child  I  want  to  see 
pleased.  So  keep  on  the  spot.  Captain 
Morton  has  come  back,  and  he  knows  Zoe 
has  had  some  money  left  her.  Be  on  the 
spot !  "  I  walked  away  without  a  word. 
Since  then  I  have  hardly  seen  Zoe.  It 
96 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

is  insulting  to  go  near  her.  As  if  I  did 
not  trust  her !  As  if  I  would  be  "  on  the 
spot ! " 


I  CAN'T  wait  to  tell  you !  so  this  Zoe  Mont 
goes  round  to  you  by  messenger.  You  rose  to 
couldn't  guess  it  out  in  a  lifetime.  I 
am  rich,  truly  rich !  Uncle  Obed  has 
died.  He  was  a  miser,  God  bless  him ! 
and  he  's  left  it  all  to  me.  Did  you  ever 
hear  of  anything  so  absurd  ?  Now  I  can 
buy  myself  elegant  leisure,  as  if  it  were 
something  to  be  found  at  the  shops.  I 
can  give  myself  time  to  write  my  plays. 
I  can  even  bring  them  out.  Of  course, 
though  I  lead  the  horse  to  water  I  can't 
make  him  drink;  and  though  I  were 
Midas  I  can't  force  the  public  to  listen. 
Stay !  is  it  impossible  ?  Go  to  !  there 
shall  be  souvenir  nights,  and  the  news 
papers  shall  be  fully  primed.  Actresses 
shall  pose  as  injured  wives,  and  scandals 
shall  be  described  in  flaming  headlines. 

97 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

All  print  is  open  to  us.     We  are  rich, 
rich !     I  'm  quite  delirious  with  it. 


Francis       j    OVE, —  You  bewilder  me.     I  did  n't 
Hume         J_^  know         Cared.    Money  ?   I  did  n't 

to  Zoe  .  .         _   ,     , .  . 

Montrose  know  you  wanted  it.  I  believe  we  have 
a  great  deal.  My  father  told  me  I  need 
not  stint.  Don't  use  yours.  Please  don't 
use  it.  Marry  me  to-morrow,  and  take 
mine. 


Zoe  Mont-    T^ON'T  use  it  ?     Why,  I  want  to  use 
rose  to          JL/  jt  j     you  might  as  well  ask  a  new- 

Francis  .   ,  .  ,          ,  .  .,    . 

Hume  crowned  king  to  go  and  make  a  visit  in 
central  Africa,  and  pick  up  all  the  gold 
he  could  carry.  Be  patient.  I  '11  come 
to  Africa  by  and  by.  But  just  now  I 
want  to  take  mine  ease  in  the  opulence 
of  my  mind.  I  'm  having  a  new  dress 
made  of  a  queer  dull  green  and  blue,  and 
I'll  buy  a  set  of  turquoises,  God  wot, 
and  present  them  to  myself  from  my 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

dearest  friend.  Uncle  Obed  lived  and 
died  in  South  America.  I  won't  wear 
mourning  —  I  won't !  I  won't !  Perhaps 
green  and  blue  are  mourning  there. 


DEAREST  LADY,  —  Will  you  write  Francis 
me  —  just  a  word,  only  a  word?  Hume 
You  see  I  could  not  get  a  whisper  from 
you  last  night,  and  you  were  so  brilliant 
and  sparkling,  like  a  shining  gem.  Call 
me  a  baby,  if  you  like.  I  don't  mind. 
Only  say  you  love  me.  Just  the  three 
words,  dear?  And  will  you  take  these 
little  blue  stones  ?  I  can  see  how  they 
would  look  against  your  skin ;  I  held 
them  near  a  pinkish  rose,  and  then  I  saw 
you  in  my  mind  and  I  threw  the  rose 
aside.  Dear,  the  three  words  ?  I  feel 
very  humble,  very  much  of  a  beggar. 
Will  you? 

99 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 


Zoe  Mont- 
rose  to 
Francis 
Hume 


NOW  you  are  not  sleeping,  as  I  said 
when  I  saw  the  hollows  coming 
under  your  eyes,  or  you  would  n't  fail  in 
tact.  It  is  n't  like  you.  I  want  to  buy 
my  turquoises  myself.  Don't  you  see 
how  I  am  luxuriating  in  the  sense  of  un 
familiar  power  ?  It  will  pass,  and  then 
I  '11  take  your  gift.  Of  course  —  the 
three  words  —  of  course  ;  but  I  can't  be 
always  writing  them.  They  look  so  ba 
thetic.  Now  I  Ve  seemed  brutal  and  ill- 
tempered,  all  in  one  letter.  But  why  will 
you  be  faultless  and  appealing,  and  why 
won't  you  see  I  am  a  child  of  the  earth 
(the  street-earth  —  paving-stones  ground 
up  and  mixed  with  champagne)  and  go 
home  to  your  birds  and  trees  ? 


Zoe  Mont-    "\7X)U  were  not  interesting  last  night, 
rose  to  \    and   Captain   Morton  was;   there 

fore  I  sat  out  with  him.     But  you  should 
not  have  turned  white  and  frozen  in  a 

100 


Francis 
Hume 


THE  DAY   OF   HIS^  YOUTH 

corner.  That  sort  of  docile  .remonstrance 
in  you  rouses  my  aunt  to  a  height  of 
righteousness  which  nature  itself  cannot 
endure.  I  mean  my  nature.  She  says 
you  are  perfection,  and  that  I  don't  de 
serve  you.  The  maxims  are  unimpeach 
able;  I  agree  to  both.  Go,  if  you  like, 
or  stay  and  be  agreeable.  I  forgot  to 
tell  you  that  I  am  going  to  New  York  to 
visit  Alice  May,  Captain  Morton's  cousin. 
Auntie  is  angry.  Are  you  angry,  too  ? 
Is  all  the  world  suspicious,  and  of  Othel 
lo's  complexion  ?  If  the  primitive  pas 
sions  do  rage  just  as  furiously  even 
though  we  speak  Victorian  English,  tell 
me,  what 's  the  use  of  development  ?  We 
are  simply  more  trammeled  and  less 
frank.  Having  blown  off  the  steam  of 
my  wrath,  I  '11  condescend  to  say  that 
the  invitation  from  Alice  just  reached 
me,  and  that  I  have  decided  quite  sud 
denly.  Again,  does  it  make  you  angry? 
Would  you  rather  have  me  fettered  to 
your  wrist  by  a  nice,  neat  little  chain  with 


101 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

your  monogram  on  it  and  a  jeweled  pad 
lock  ? 


Francis  A  NGRY  because  you  are  going  away  ? 
Hume  /~\  My  iady,  heart  of  me,  you  know  me 
Montrose  Better.  You  are  free  from  everything 
but  my  love.  It  follows  you  everywhere, 
poor  pensioner.  It  has  nothing  to  claim, 
nothing  to  exact.  Give  it  place  in  your 
suite,  and  be  patient  with  it ;  for  it  would 
hide  away  rather  than  break  in  upon  your 
mood.  All  your  moods  are  like  crystal 
bubbles,  no  more  to  be  shivered  than  one 
of  God's  beautiful  worlds.  I  love  you ; 
but  you  are  infinitely  sacred,  infinitely 
precious  to  me,  —  above  all,  and  above 
measure,  free.  Go,  dearest  lady ;  be 
happy.  Think  of  me  when  the  thought 
is  an  added  pleasure,  and  then  —  come 
back  to  me. 

102 


D 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 


EAR,  —  O,  at   moments   like  this  Zoe  Mont- 

rose  to 


I  feel  as  if  I  could  repay   you  so 

_,  1-1  i  Francis 

royally!  You  are  a  knight  peerless.  Hume 
Remember,  whatever  comes  between  us, 
that  I  knew  this  of  you.  I  shall  always 
think  of  you  with  reverence.  If  you 
were  here,  perhaps  I  should  be  perverse 
and  willful,  and  prick  your  offered  hand 
with  some  tempestuous  thorn ;  but  I  do 
meet  you  with  one  half  my  soul  —  per 
haps  with  all  my  real  soul.  I  send  you  a 
kiss.  Come  to  the  station  if  you  like ; 
but  it  will  be  to  see  the  outer  me,  the 
worldly  one. 


SHE  is  gone.     There  is  nothing  to  do   To  the 
for  a  week  —  a  month,  perhaps  —  Unknown 
but  prowl  about  this  dismal  city,  looking 
in   the  faces  of   men.     At  the  theatres 
there  is  heavy  comedy  played  by  buffoons. 
So  I  stay  away  and  watch  my  kind,  and 
wonder  what  I  'm  going  to  do  to  make  a 
103 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

man  of  myself.  Write  ?  What  ?  World- 
fuls  of  thought  are  creating  themselves 
within  me,  but  as  yet  they  are  only  star- 
dust.  I  doubt  if  they  will  be  anything 
more.  There  is  a  strange  ache  in  my 
throat,  a  strange  failing  within  me.  Is 
it  what  children  call  homesickness  ?  I 
heard  little  Ethel  Wynne,  the  other  day, 
talking  about  her  first  visit  from  home  : 

"  They  put  me  to  bed,  and  I  cried  and 
cried  all  alone,  and  I  was  sick  at  my 
stomach,  and  I  pitied  me." 

"  Poor  Mother  Bunch  !  "  said  her  fa 
ther.  "  Homesick ! " 

And  I  believe  I  "  pity  me,"  too.  I 
must  be  a  weak  sort  of  a  fellow.  All  the 
men  I  meet  are  absorbed  in  something  — 
horse  —  college  —  games.  I  am  sick 
for  the  unknown.  Not  the  camp.  I  be 
lieve  the  loneliness  there  would  kill  me 
now.  O,  why  talk  of  it,  for  the  sole 
use  of  spending  myself  on  paper  !  I  am 
sick  for  her  —  her !  Heavens  —  what 
ever  that  means  —  how  terrible  it  is  to 
104 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

love  a  woman  !  Yet  it  seems  so  simple. 
If  she  loved  me — oh,  she  does  love  me, 
but  she  has  her  moods.  She  is  compact 
of  fire  and  air  and  dew,  and  her  path  is 
like  the  swallow's.  How  should  I  find 
her? 


I  AM  taking  violin  lessons,  as  you  sug-  Francis 
gest ;  also  French.  The  verdict,  in  ^ej 
each  case,  is  that  I  have  been  wonder-  Hume 
fully  well  taught.  I  begin  to  know  you 
for  a  genius.  How  have  you  managed  to 
do  so  many  things  to  perfection?  The 
Frenchman,  Dr.  Pascal,  is  stirring  my 
brain  more  than  anything  has  yet  suc 
ceeded  in  doing.  So  far  I  have  felt  like 
a  muddy  pool  in  which  the  stars  and  gas 
lamps  try  to  reflect  themselves  and  get 
only  broken  gleams  in  return.  He  is 
unsparingly  critical  of  our  American 
civilization,  and  feels  at  liberty  to  say 
so  to  me,  because  I  am  primeval  man, 
fresh  from  my  woods.  He  tells  me  such 
105 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

marvels  of  the  French.  According  to 
him,  they  are  the  creators  of  form  :  form 
in  art,  in  language,  in  mechanism.  If  I 
could  reproduce  his  thought,  it  would  be 
to  tell  you  that,  as  we  are  the  youngest 
of  nations,  so,  too,  are  we  the  crudest. 
We  are  eaten  up  by  an  infinite  compla 
cency.  Because  we  are  big,  we  fancy  we 
blot  out  the  sun  whenever  we  choose  to 
turn  our  bulk.  We  submit  to  a  thousand 
public  abuses  because  we  are  too  drenched 
in  our  own  fatness  to  criticise  or  disturb 
ourselves.  The  individual  is  rampant, 
and  all  are  enslaved.  Consequently,  this 
is  not  the  land  of  liberty,  but  of  license, 
overrun  by  a  wild  chase  of  "every  man 
for  himself."  We  worship  our  wealth, 
and  not  what  it  brings  us.  We  adore  dis 
play  ;  it  tickles  us  more  to  scatter  money 
broadcast  in  blazonry  than  to  live  in 
chaste  democracy  and  erect  monuments 
to  our  public  good.  To  beauty  we  are 
almost  totally  blind  and  deaf;  and  what 
wonder,  when  there  is  no  milieu  !  We 
106 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

do  not  breathe  an  aesthetic  atmosphere. 
Our  public  buildings  are  atrocious,  and  — 
and  —  I  could  go  on  for  pages,  but  I 
spare  you.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  it  may 
be  true.  You  know  how  much  my  opin 
ion  is  worth.  I  might  as  well  be  a  boy 
of  ten  for  all  I  can  say,  judged  by  expe 
rience  and  comparison ;  but  to  me  every 
thing  in  this  city  is  small,  disappoint 
ing,  unbeautiful.  Nothing,  except  the 
music,  fills  my  ideal  of  what  I  thought  life 
would  be  when  I  pictured  it  in  my  tent. 
Is  life  small  ?  Are  men  pygmies  ?  Or 
are  my  judgments  naught  ? 


YOU  are   right   in   distrusting   your  Ernest 
judgments.       I    should    not    trust  Humeto 
them,  either,  because,  as   you   say,  you  Hume 
have  no  standard  of  comparison.     But  I 
think  this  may  truly  be  said.     America 
is   young,  and   therefore   you  must   not 
expect  of  her  a  full  artistic  development. 
She  has  done  some  of  the  greatest  moral 
107 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

work  imaginable.  There  her  instinct  was 
unspoiled,  just  as  that  of  youth  should 
be.  She  came  "trailing  clouds  of  glory." 
But  art  is  not  the  flower  of  the  moment. 
Neither  is  it  to  be  borrowed  from  other 
lands;  though  thus  may  we  obtain  the 
technique  which  teaches  appreciation. 
A  few  geniuses  seem  to  be  born  full- 
fledged;  I  doubt  if  a  nation  could  be. 
A  man,  even  a  genius,  has  to  learn  to  use 
his  tools.  So  does  a  people.  The  French 
are  form-mad.  I  don't  wonder.  Outer 
beauty  is  a  subtile  poison.  Once  taste  it 
and  you  never  lose  the  craving.  It  is  a 
beautiful  zeal,  but  not  always  the  best 
zeal.  I  've  been  a  coward  and  an  absentee 
about  life  myself,  but  I'd  rather  trust 
some  of  those  vigorous  old  ^pirates  like 
Sir  Francis  Drake,  who  went  about  pick 
ing  up  new  worlds  like  huckleberries, 
than  a  carpet-knight  on  tiptoe  at  the  apex 
of  civilization.  But  don't  misunderstand 
me.  My  pen  ran  away.  I  don't  under 
value  your  Frenchman.  I  only  say,  Be 
108 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

patient  with  America.  She  is  so  young, 
poor  girl !  The  only  discouraging  thing 
about  it  is,  as  he  says,  that  she  does  n't 
know  it.  If  she  would  learn  of  her 
grandams  and  great-aunts,  she  would  burn 
her  ringers  and  tear  her  frock  less  often. 
Her  lovers  must  simply  be  patient  and 
wait  till  she  grows  to  her  task.  Perhaps 
when  she  really  is  older  and  stronger,  and 
has  lifted  her  straw  a  day,  she  '11  be  capa 
ble  of  carrying  this  burden  of  government. 
No,  she  has  n't  solved  her  problem  yet ; 
democracy  is  the  highest  form  of  govern 
ment,  but  she  does  not  yet  know  how  to 
administer  it.  I  find  I  am  not  so  far  out 
of  gear  with  civilization  as  I  thought,  for 
I  have  strong  ambitions  for  you.  I  find 
I  want  you  to  take  up  the  fardel  of  public 
life ;  not  to  be  a  pessimistic  complainer, 
standing  aside  with  your  hands  in  your 
pockets,  but  a  citizen.  And  if  you  can 
do  something,  too,  for  art  —  but  after  all, 
I  shall  be  content  if  you  keep  your  soul 
clean. 

109 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

ZotMont-    IpvEAR  LADDIE, —  I  have  a  great 
™eto .        J^J   deal  to  say  to  you,  and  I  am  ut- 

Francis 

Hume  terly  incapable  of  saying  it.  So  the  only 
resource  I  have  is  to  be  short  and  trust 
to  your  intuitions.  You  can  supply  my 
remorse,  and  my  grief  that  life  is  what  it 
is.  We  are  blind  instruments  of  blinder 
fate.  Captain  Morton  came  here  soon 
after  I  did.  You  knew  that.  He  says 
plainly  that  he  came  to  see  me.  More 
than  that,  he  came  to  see  me  because  he 
loved  me.  If  there  is  anything  in  love, 
is  n't  it  this  power  of  one  creature  over 
another  ?  Are  we  responsible  ?  Are  we 
true  to  ourselves  if  we  fight  against  it  ? 
I,  at  least,  could  not  fight.  If  my  bond 
to  you  had  been  a  thousand  times  more 
strong,  I  should  have  snapped  it  like 
twine.  I  told  him  I  would  write  you 
that  it  is  broken.  I  wish  life  might  be 
good  to  you,  though  I  cannot  be.  And 
I  wish  I  might  never  see  you  again,  now, 
or  after  my  marriage.  I  don't  say,  For- 

IIO 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

give  me.     You  can't  yet,  but  some  time 
perhaps  you  will. 


DEAR   LADY,  —  Since  your  letter  Francis 
reached  me,  I  have  written  you  a  Hume 
great  many  answers.     None  of  them  are    °Montrose 
worth  sending.    This  is  all  I  tried  to  say. 
You  are  just  as  much  loved  as  before, 
and   you   are  free,  —  perfectly,    entirely 
free.     It  must  be  for  you  exactly  as  if 
you  had  never  been  bound.     And  you 
shall  never  see  me. 


must   be   some  outlet  for  To  the 
-L     this,  or  I  shall  be  talking  to  peo-  Unknown 
pie  in  the  street.     They  will  think  I  am  ***** 
crazy,  and  that  will  be  the  end  of  it.     So 
I  '11   put   it  all   down,   madness  and  all. 
So  Francis  Hume  came  up  to  town,  did 
he  ?     And  lost  his  love  !     He  was  well 
enough,  poor  fool,  down  in  the  woods; 
but  the  Great  Ones  that  plague  us  for 
in 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

their  sport  sent  him  a  mirage,  and  it  daz 
zled  him,  and  he  sailed  after  it.  No  ! 
no !  no !  It  was  not  mirage.  It  was 
true  —  a  true,  true  vision.  She  is  real, 
and  sweet,  and  sound,  my  lady  with  the 
merry  laugh  and  seeking  eyes.  I  had 
her  ;  I  have  the  vision  of  her.  I  wish  I 
did  not  remember  such  piercing  lines : 
"  My  good  days  are  over ! "  And  poor 
Thekla,  — 

"  Ich  habe  gelebt  und  geliebet." 

Here 's  a  supposition.  Is  a  woman 
betrayed  more  lost  than  a  man's  soul 
when  it  is  rejected  and  thrown  back  to 
live  alone  ?  Perhaps  there  is  a  difference. 
But  this  lonesomeness  of  the  heart !  If 
I  died,  should  I  still  live  and  be  I,  bear 
ing  my  wormwood  with  me  ?  A  life  shat 
tered  so  early  !  "  You  have  broken  my 
globe  !  you  have  broken  my  globe !  " 

They  have  come  back  to  Boston,  he 
and  she.  They  came  together,  and  I 
saw  them.  I  watched  him  go  up  the 

112 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

steps  with  her,  and  heard  him  laugh 
when  they  went  in.  I  sat  on  a  seat  in 
the  mall,  and  watched.  He  wears  a 
strange  significance  for  me.  I  suppose 
I  hate  him,  really ;  and  yet,  because  she 
loves  him,  he  holds  a  new  and  awful  in 
terest.  It  is  really  as  if  /  loved  him.  I 
think  of  him  with  her  thoughts  ;  how 
strong  he  is,  how  black  those  eyes,  how 
white  his  hands,  how  round  his  voice. 
And  every  thought  poisons  me,  and  I  roll 
in  my  nettles  and  sting  myself  deeper. 

...  I  loved  a  woman  —  O  God  !  be 
trayed  !  betrayed  !  Not  by  her.  O  God, 
save  her  from  punishment  and  remorse  ! 
She  was  deceived.  She  shall  not  suffer. 

...  I  do  not  know  what  God  is.  I 
sat  thinking  of  Him  an  hour  in  the  dark, 
last  night.  All  I  know  is  that  mankind 
has  made  Him.  He  is  the  cry  raised  by 
their  united  voices  when  they  wail.  He 
is  the  uttermost  anguish  of  their  hearts. 
They  had  to  call  it  something,  this  wail 
of  terror  and  grief,  and  so  they  called  it 
113 


THE   DAY   OF  HIS   YOUTH 

God.  I  call  it  God,  too.  I  lift  up  my 
voice  with  theirs,  and  cry,  God  !  God  ! 

...  I  have  taken  to  following  them 
about  the  town.  They  went  to  the  thea 
tre  last  night.  I  sat  in  the  gallery,  and 
looked  down  on  them.  How  familiar  she 
seems  —  how  truly  mine  !  Can  anybody 
steal  what  is  mine  ?  After  the  theatre  I 
slept  a  little,  and  dreamed  that  we  were 
on  a  shore,  a  silver  strip  of  sands,  with 
the  sea  black  before  us.  I  dragged  her 
from  him,  and  when  I  had  struck  him 
down,  she  turned  to  me,  with  a  glad,  low 
cry,  and  clung  to  me,  all  warm.  She  was 
glad  !  And  I  have  been  warm  about  the 
heart  all  day,  for  the  remembrance  dwells 
with  me.  How  beautiful  it  would  be  to 
kill  him,  if  after  it  was  all  over  she  would 
turn  to  me  and  rest  here  in  my  arms  ! 

Once  I  could  have  lived  through  this. 
There  would  have  been  horse  and  hound 
and  battle-axe  —  sword  and  lance  —  all 
the  rest  of  it.  I  could  have  gone  away 
to  the  wars  and  worked  off  some  of  this 
114 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

horror.     And  now,  like  a  rat  in  a  trap, 
I  've  got  to  sit  still  here  and  go  mad. 


DEAR  FRIEND,  —  We  have  made  Mrs.Mont- 
a  wretched  botch  of  it  among  us,  ™eto  ^ 
with  your  poor  boy.  Zoe  has  jilted  him. 
We  might  have  guessed  it.  He  has  sim 
ply  disappeared.  He  left  a  card  here, 
and  quietly  changed  his  lodgings.  At 
the  Tremont  House,  they  either  don't 
know  where  he  has  gone  or  refuse  to 
say.  I  am  worried  about  him.  Poor 
boy !  poor  boy !  he  won  love  everywhere, 
but  he  did  n't  want  it.  Only  hers  ;  and 
Captain  Morton  could  have  conjured  her 
into  a  black  cat  any  time  these  three 
years,  if  he  had  chosen.  Don't  blame 
me.  There 's  a  fate  in  things ;  and  if  you 
wanted  your  boy  to  escape  tragedy,  you 
should  n't  have  given  him  that  face. 
"5 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 


Emest        T~\EAR  BOY,  —  Could  you  come  down 

Hume  to        j^J     ^  gee  me      ^  ?      j  ,        having  a 
Francis  & 

Hume  series  of  colds,  and  they  keep  me  in  bed 
and  make  me  melancholy-stupid.  Then, 
when  you  go  back,  perhaps  I  can  go  with 
you.  Where  are  you  now  ?  From  your 
giving  the  address  of  a  post-office  box,  I 
fancy  you  have  left  the  Tremont  House. 
When  will  you  come  ? 


Francis       T~\EAR    FATHER,-—!  will    come 

Hume  to        \_f     sooa       J    can»t    qujte    vet       J    am 

Hume        sorry  y°u  are  not  well-    I  will  come  sooa 


To  the        'T'^HE  voices  of  people  about  me  do 
Unknown       J^     hurt  me  so.     I  won't  see  a  soul  I 

Friend 

know,  but  the  waiters  asking  for  orders 
—  O,  they  hurt  me  so  !  I  shall  be  like 
a  woman,  and  scream.  I  can't  see  my 
father  yet  —  not  yet.  I  could  n't  bear 
his  face,  or  his  voice.  They  would  be 
116 


THE   DAY  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

so  kind.  I  must  be  alone.  Yet  it  is 
awful  for  crazy  people  to  be  alone.  They 
are  so  beset  by  dreams  —  and  faces.  I 
don't  think  they  are  real,  but  still  there 
are  faces. 

.  .  .  My  God  !  what  have  I  seen  to 
day  !  I  went  walking  —  fast,  fast  —  and 
I  took  the  poorest  streets,  so  that  I  might 
not  meet  any  one  I  know.  And  all  the 
animal-people  —  hog,  rabbit,  fox,  cat,  and 
the  rest  —  kept  coming  toward  me  as  I 
walked ;  for  now  there  seems  to  be  a  sort 
of  mist  in  the  air,  and  one  face  flares 
out  of  the  mist  and  then  another.  And 
it  rushed  over  me  suddenly  how  they 
must  ache  and  suffer  and  languish  to  be 
so  poor  and  so  ignorant  and  vile.  There 
is  a  dropping  inside  my  heart,  all  the 
time,  as  if  the  blood  that  ought  to  nour 
ish  me  were  falling  and  falling  and  wast 
ing  itself  in  pain.  And  I  began  to  look 
into  the  faces,  and  it  seemed  to  me  as 
if  these  people,  too,  were  all  of  them 
bleeding.  The  ground  was  red  and 
117 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

soaked.  And  then  I  learned  that  all  this 
great  world  is  in  pain  just  like  my  own. 
I  did  not  seem  so  much  alone  then  — 
not  quite.  They  were  like  me,  all  of 
them.  I  began  to  see  how  some  might 
love  them  ;  and  the  more  hideous  they 
were,  so  much  the  more  could  one  love. 
Who  was  Jesus  Christ  ? 

...  I  went  to  the  Passion  Music,  and 
sat  alone  in  a  little  crowded  corner,  afraid 
of  being  seen.  It  crucified  my  soul.  I 
felt  as  if  the  violins  were  bowing  on  my 
brain,  sawing  the  little  gray  strings  that 
are  my  nerves.  And  then  it  came  upon 
me  like  an  overwhelming  sea.  This  Man 
—  this  God-man  —  loved  the  whole  world 
and  was  rejected  by  it.  I  loved  one; 
and  because  she  cast  me  off,  I  am  as  I 
am.  True  or  not  —  His  story  —  but  is 
it  true  ? 

.  .  .  Yet  I  cannot  stop  loving  her.     I 

love  her  to-day  more,  more,  a  thousand 

times  more,  if  that  can  be.     Is  it  true  I 

have  no  right  to  love  her  ?     Then  I  have 

It8 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

no  right  to  breathe.    I  had  no  right  to  be 
born. 


DEAR     FRANCIS,  —  Won't    you  Ernest 
come  down  for  a  day  or  two  ?     If  Humt  to 
not,  I  think  I  shall  go  to  you.    Write  me  Francis 

,  *  Hume 

a  word. 


DEAR  FATHER,  —  Try  to  be  pa-  Francis 
tient  with  me.      I  '11   come   soon,  ^me  to 
truly  soon.     I  'm   not   very  good   com 
pany.     I  'm  thinking  things  out. 


CONCORD,  N.  H. 

T7RNEST    HUME    sick  here   with  Telez™«> 

_  to  Francis 

pneumonia.     Come.  Hume 


I  AM  glad  you  got  off  so  well,  and  Mrs. Mont- 
that  the  sun  shone  at  last.     Ever  so  rosetoZoe 

.  Morton 

many  presents  have  come  since  you  left. 

Mrs.  Badger  sends  a  Turkish  rug,  hid- 

119 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

eous,  I  think,  and  abominably  dirty.  I 
smelled  cholera,  and  in  five  minutes  sent 
the  thing  to  be  cleansed.  Cousin  Robert, 
in  his  usual  forethoughtful  way,  brought 
a  silver  service,  unmarked,  so  that  you  can 
exchange  it  if  you  like.  Do  you  read 
the  papers  ?  Do  you  know  about  Fran 
cis  Hume  ?  I  found  out  casually  from 
Bellamy  Winthrop,  who  chanced  to  go  up 
with  him  in  the  train.  Bellamy  is  a  fer 
ret  ;  that  you  know.  He  could  get  news 
out  of  a  stone  —  or  Francis.  It  seems 
Mr.  Hume  was  very  ill,  started  to  come 
down  here,  was  taken  worse  in  a  Con 
cord  hotel,  and  died  there  before  Francis 
could  reach  him.  The  boy  took  his  body 
and  carried  it  to  that  awful  camp  for 
burial.  I  desire  never  to  set  eyes  on 
the  place  again.  I  wrote  to  him,  but  he 
does  n't  answer.  Good  luck  to  you  both. 
Regards  to  Captain  Morton.  I  suppose 
I  am  to  call  him  Ned  ?  What  with  the 
wedding  and  this  last  nightmare,  my 
nerves  are  quite  unstrung. 
1 20 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

FRANCIS  HUME  had  gone  back. 
It  was  the  spring  now,  and  a  visit 
to  the  spot  at  that  same  time  last  year 
reminded  me  that  the  grass  would  have 
been  thick  and  tall  before  the  door,  and 
that  the  linden  was  in  bloom.  I  had  found 
old  Pierre  in  the  village,  and  asked  him  to 
row  me  over ;  but  though  his  arms  were 
still  like  whipcords,  he  declined.  He 
seemed  to  think  the  visit  an  intrusion 
upon  the  two  who  had  evidently  made 
something  as  holy  and  unapproachable  in 
his  own  life  as  the  legends  of  his  saints. 
On  the  other  hand,  he  was  jealously  un 
willing  to  trust  me  there  alone  ;  and 
when  I  found  another  man  to  row  me, 
Pierre  came  of  his  own  will  and  took  a 
place  in  the  boat.  The  day  was  a  heaven 
of  May,  the  lake  untouched.  Our  oars 
made  its  only  ripple.  It  was  a  strange, 
still  progress.  Pierre,  dark,  silent,  a  man 
of  thought  and  experience,  brooded  all 
the  way,  as  over  vanished  things ;  and 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

the  other  man  evidently  held  him  in  too 
much  awe  to  speak.  They  landed  me 
without  a  word.  I  walked  about  the  spot 
where  the  log-cabin  had  stood,  now  a 
blank  in  the  vegetation.  I  lingered  by 
the  Point,  to  catch  the  little  ripples  there ; 
and  I  visited  the  spring  where  the  two 
men  used  to  drink.  Pierre  had  followed 
me,  with  the  cat-like  tread  of  the  woods. 
He  touched  my  sleeve,  and  pointed 
through  a  forest  path. 

"  There,"  he  said.  "  That  is  the  grave." 
I  understood.  Ernest  Hume  had  been 
buried  there.  I  walked  in  a  few  steps, 
and  Pierre  pointed.  A  forest  of  maiden 
hair  strove  and  fluttered  greenly.  This 
was  the  grave.  There  was  no  stone  to 
mark  it ;  but  at  that  moment  it  seemed 
to  me  very  rich  in  peace  to  lie  down  so 
and  to  be  absorbed  into  the  life  of  the 
forest,  throwing  back  no  foolish  outcry, 
"  Here  I  lie  !  Remember." 

When  Pierre  found  that  I  was  going 
back  without  disturbing  even  a  leaf  of 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

his  shrine,  his  heart  opened  a  little  to 
me,  and  he  told  me  a  few  facts  of  the 
burial.  Francis  Hume  had  brought  back 
his  father's  body,  and  they  two  had  dug 
the  grave  and  laid  him  within  it.  Francis 
had  never  spoken.  He  looked  like  the 
dead.  He  had  no  mind.  Pierre  repeated 
it :  he  had  no  mind. 

I  could  understand.  He  was  beside 
himself.  His  soul  had  been  reft  away 
into  merciful  dulness,  somewhere  outside 
his  body.  When  the  burial  was  over, 
Francis  had  dismissed  him  and  walked 
away  into  the  woods.  Pierre  followed, 
silently.  All  that  day  they  walked,  Fran 
cis  unconscious  that  he  was  not  alone. 
Then  Pierre  began  to  realize  that  they 
were  going  in  a  great  circle,  and  that 
they  were  coming  back  to  the  grave. 
Night  fell,  and  they  were  still  walking, 
now  away  from  the  grave  again,  but  al 
ways  in  a  circle.  The  moon  came  out, 
and  Pierre,  very  hungry,  yet  not  daring 
to  lose  sight  of  Francis,  approached  him 
123 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

and  tried  to  speak ;  the  boy's  eyes  were 
wide  open,  unwinking,  luminous.  Pierre 
began  to  talk  of  food,  and  Francis  struck 
out  at  him,  and  walked  on.  Pierre  fol 
lowed.  They  continued  still  in  the  same 
dull  circle,  all  night  long,  Francis  walk 
ing  like  a  cat  undeterred  by  branches 
and  avoiding  pitfalls  with  the  cleverness 
of  the  insane,  and  the  guide,  wearied  and 
stumbling.  Just  as  the  latter  darkness  of 
night  came  on,  Francis  paused,  wavered 
a  little,  and  Pierre  caught  him  as  he  fell. 
He  drew  him  upon  his  shoulder,  and 
toiled  back  to  camp  with  him.  There  he 
laid  him  upon  a  couch  in  the  cabin,  and 
poured  brandy  between  his  lips.  All  that 
day  the  boy  slept,  only  stirring .  when 
Pierre  roused  him  to  administer  milk  or 
brandy ;  but  at  twilight  time  he  moved 
and  opened  his  eyes.  Pierre  knew  he  had 
"come  back."  Then  the  old  man  placed 
bread  and  meat  beside  him  and  went 
silently  out.  He  had  much  experience, 
I  judged,  of  the  dignity  of  the  soul; 
124 


THE   DAY  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

much  knowledge,  gained  from  lonely  liv 
ing,  of  her  needs.  He  knew  when  she 
must  be  alone.  Yet  he  watched  all  night 
in  the  grove,  his  quick  ears  strained  for  a 
movement  of  the  creature  within.  What 
came  next,  Francis  Hume  only  can  tell. 


IT  is  two  o'clock  in  the  morning,  and 
I  am  writing  here  in  the  cabin  door 
way.  I  have  no  light,  yet  I  can  see  what 
I  am  writing.  That,  I  remember,  is  not 
what  ordinarily  happens  ;  but  it  seems 
quite  natural.  I  must  write  in  haste,  for, 
as  I  judge,  I  have  been  crazy,  and  now  I 
am  sane ;  and  I  must  put  down  something 
to  remember,  lest  madness  should  come 
on  again.  I  must  have  something  to 
hold  to,  if  I  am  to  fall  back  into  the  great 
confusion  and  trouble  of  mind  that  have 
been  sweeping  me  down  like  a  sea.  For 
I  have  learned  something.  It  is  most 
precious,  and  I  must  be  sure  to  keep  it. 
There  is  no  doubt  that  I  have  killed  my 
125 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

father.  I  was  not  by  to  tend  him.  When 
his  soul  was  going  forth,  I  let  it  go  alone. 
I  brought  upon  him  the  sharpest  pangs 
of  his  mortality.  But  even  that  is  well. 
Can  I  write  what  has  befallen  me,  to  re 
call  it  to  my  later  mind  when  the  vision 
has  faded,  as  it  may  ?  I  cling  to  it.  I 
must  try.  First,  I  went  down  into  hell. 
I  do  not  know  much  about  that.  It  is 
confused.  And  hell  is  not  very  impor 
tant.  We  dig  it  for  ourselves.  Let  me 
remember  only  the  things  of  God.  Then 
I  awoke,  and  Pierre  was  feeding  me.  He 
went  out,  and  I  saw  the  twilight  shaft  of 
light  strike  across  the  cabin  where  it 
used  to  fall.  But  I  knew  everything  was 
changed.  The  cabin  was  not  real.  Only 
I  was  real  —  and  Pierre.  My  soul  —  was 
it  my  soul  ?  —  went  out  of  the  cabin,  and 
swept  across  Lone  Mountain  to  the  sea, 
and  over  the  sea  and  back  again.  She 
saw  the  great  earth  swing  in  space.  She 
knew  there  are  many  worlds  beside. 
She  felt  an  awe  of  the  vastness  of  things, 
126 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

and  she  began  to  be  healed.  Then  she 
came  back  to  me,  and  I  took  her  in,  like 
a  dove  with  dew  upon  her  wings,  and  she 
comforted  me.  Me?  Was  it  she  who 
went,  or  I  ?  What  is  she  ?  I  do  not  know. 
But  I  was  comforted.  Then,  as  I  lay 
there,  vision  after  vision  began  to  throng 
upon  me,  and  the  cabin  walls  lifted  up, 
and  let  me  see  the  world.  And  I  looked 
upon  the  great  balances  wherein  we  are 
held,  and  millions  of  souls,  uncounted 
souls,  in  myriads,  like  little  points  of 
light,  fleeing  home  to  God.  That  was  it 
—  God.  That  was  what  I  had  sinned 
and  suffered  for,  to  know  Him.  I  saw 
the  souls  going  toward  Him,  and  an  inef 
fable  delight  took  hold  on  me  because  I 
felt  that  I  was  going,  too ;  not  my  body, 
not  even  the  Me  that  stayed  in  the 
cabin,  though  every  impulse  of  me  was 
tending  fast  that  way.  I  knew  a  flow 
er's  feeling  when  its  fragrance  meets  the 
sun.  This  was  love  ;  and  immediately  I 
understood  everything  that  it  was  neces- 
127 


THE   DAY  OF  HIS   YOUTH 

sary  for  me  to  understand.  I  compre 
hended  His  perfect  well-wishing  toward 
us.  I  knew  one  blood  ran  from  His  heart 
through  ours.  I  knew  how  small  a  thing 
it  is  to  say  "  /  suffer."  I  ?  What  is  I  ? 
A  mote  in  the  whole,  an  aching  nerve  in 
one  great  plexus.  And  the  whole  will 
some  day  be  nourished,  and  we  shall  be 
healed.  I  do  not  know  whether  I  can 
believe  this  when  I  read  it  by  day ;  but 
the  cabin  is  thronged  with  —  radiances. 
I  have  not  learned  what  to  call  them, 
but  they  are  infinitely  beautiful,  patient, 
strong,  and  they  uphold  me.  I  cannot 
think  they  suffer  with  me  ;  their  wisdom 
is  too  great.  But  they  crowd  about  me 
silently,  forbearingly,  divinely.  They  are 
incarnate  love.  I  stretch  out  my  hands 
to  them.  While  they  stay,  I  am  almost 
happy.  I  do  not  see  them,  yet  they  shed 
a  lustre  and  the  soul  perceives  it.  I  have 
learned  —  what  have  I  learned  ?  Obedi 
ence.  I  must  not  strive  nor  cry.  I  must 
serve.  What  ?  I  do  not  know.  But  I 
128 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

must  serve,  even  in  the  dark  and  en 
chained.  I  am  content  to  grope,  with 
my  eyes  bandaged.  Content  ?  No,  this 
is  joy.  I  have  tasted  God.  I  drink  no 
other  spring. 

I  have  read  this  over.  It  is  all  wrong, 
all  poor  and  pale ;  I  have  told  nothing. 
Yet  the  visions  —  they  are  in  my  soul. 
I  throw  my  arms  about  them  and  hold 
them  fast.  Perhaps  even  they  must  be 
withdrawn.  Perhaps  it  is  a  part  of  my 
service  to  lose  my  way.  Even  that  I  ac 
cept.  I  reach  my  hand  for  the  cup  — 
thirstily.  I  drink,  and  to  the  Unknown 
God.  What  is  He  ?  I  am  contented  not 
to  know.  What  am  I  ?  It  is  His  will  I 
should  not  know.  Only  this  :  the  soul  is 
perfect,  indestructible,  and  she  goes  to 
lave  herself  in  Him. 


THE  next  morning,  said  Pierre,  Fran 
cis  made  swift  preparations  for  go 
ing  away.     They  were  few,  for  he  wished 
129 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

to  retain  nothing  belonging  to  his  former 
life.  He  took  last  long  looks  about  the 
walls,  he  studied  the  pictures  as  if  he 
would  learn  them  by  heart,  and  laid  his 
hand  upon  one  and  another  of  the  things 
that  had  been  dear  to  him.  Then  he 
touched  fire  to  the  building,  and  stood  by 
outside,  waiting  while  it  burned.  Pierre 
very  plainly  understood  why  he  did  it, 
though  he  could  not  tell.  He  seemed  to 
distrust  the  quality  of  my  intelligence  be 
cause  I  asked  primitive  questions.  Was 
it  because  Francis  feared  marauders  ? 
Was  it  some  idea  of  sacrifice  to  his  father's 
memory  ?  Was  it  because  he  felt  himself 
unworthy  to  retain  the  precious  surround 
ings  of  a  life  to  which  he  had  been  false  ? 
As  I  became  insistent,  Pierre  grew  dumb. 
The  cabin  burned,  he  said.  Francis 
watched  it.  Then  he  went  away.  He 
never  came  back. 

In  the  old  man's  countenance  I  fancied 
I  could  trace,  under  a  veiling  patience, 
the  lines  of  an  immortal  grief.     Francis, 
130 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

I  could  understand,  had  been  the  child  of 
his  heart,  his  one  human  love.  It  had 
taken  all  the  great  austerity  of  the  forest 
to  teach  him  to  bear  that  loss.  Yet  you 
could  see  from  his  face,  as  in  the  faces  of 
so  many  who  suffer  with  dignity,  that  he 
was  not  destitute  of  hope. 

It  has  been  surprisingly  difficult  to  fol 
low  the  after-track  of  Francis  Hume. 
For  those  who  knew  him  have  only  to 
say  that  he  disappeared.  But  he  disap 
peared  merely  by  settling  down  at  their 
own  door  :  the  back-door  where  carriages 
never  come.  He  selected  a  very  poor 
and  sordid  street  in  the  city  where  he  had 
met  his  loss,  and  betook  himself  there  to 
live  ;  not,  I  believe,  with  any  idea  of  work 
among  the  poor,  but  because  he  had 
probed  life  to  the  bottom  in  his  own  ex 
perience,  and  he  felt  constrained  to  seek 
a  lower  depth.  He  had  acquired  that 
passionate  abnegation  which  is  the  child 
of  grief;  not  undervaluing  the  joys  of 
time,  he  had  learned  that  they  were  not 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

for  him.  Now  his  life  became  very  sim 
ple,  very  humble,  in  the  expectancy  of  its 
attitude ;  for  he  leaned  upon  God,  and 
waited  until  he  should  be  told  what  to  do. 
There  are  strange,  vivid  memories  of  him 
among  the  people  with  whom  he  walked. 
Evidently  he  gave  munificently,  yet  from 
such  austerity  of  life,  and  with  such 
directness  of  speech  and  action,  that  few 
presumed  to  bleed  him  further.  In  that 
same  dark  region  remain  to-day  strange 
touches  of  magnificence  and  beauty ;  a 
great  picture  here,  a  glowing  curtain 
there,  dowered  with  a  richness  the  pres 
ent  owners  may  not  understand,  although 
they  dimly  feel  it.  He  had  no  formulated 
idea  of  charity,  no  recognition  of  the  fact 
that  there  are  theories  of  doing  good. 
All  that  can  be  discovered  about  his  later 
life  is  that  he  was  much  beloved,  and 
that  he  loved  much ;  the  latter,  from  an 
aching  sense  of  the  pain  common  to  all 
souls,  a  sense  of  spiritual  kinship.  At 
least,  he  was  spared  many  of  the  taw- 
132 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

dry  temptations  of  youth  ;  for  grief  had 
touched  him  so  near  that  she  had  opened 
his  eyes  to  the  foolishness  of  vain  desires. 
He  could  watch  the  fluttering  of  the  gar 
ment  of  happiness  without  wondering  if 
happiness  were  really  underneath.  He 
had  seen  the  real ;  thenceforth,  for  him, 
there  was  no  illusion.  He  simply  lived, 
and  shared  when  the  inner  voice  told  him 
to  share  ;  and  as  it  afterwards  proved,  he 
made  his  will,  and  left  his  fortune  to  buy 
great  tracts  of  pine  woods  for  a  camping- 
ground  forevermore.  But  that  does  not 
pertain  to  his  story.  Sufficient  to  know 
that  the  trust  has  been  very  wisely  ad 
ministered,  and  that  hundreds  of  squalid 
creatures  were  last  summer  turned  loose 
there. 

Meantime  Zoe  Morton  was  fulfilling  to 
the  letter  her  own  cynical  prophecy  of  an 
unhappy  marriage.  There  is  no  doubt 
whatever  about  the  life  she  led  with  Cap 
tain  Morton.  He  was  a  frank  material 
ist.  Every  man  has  his  price,  said  he; 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

every  woman  also.  The  baser  breed  of 
vices  are  as  unavoidable  as  any  other  part 
of  the  earthly  scheme.  Eat  and  drink — 
and  die  when  you  must.  He  was  kind 
enough  to  Zoe  in  the  manner  of  a  man 
who  would  not  wantonly  hurt  his  horse 
or  dog;  he  would  have  been  kinder  had 
she  not  rebelled.  But  after  the  manner 
of  her  sex  and  nature,  when  they  wed 
with  Bottom,  she  went  hysterical-mad 
He  got  tired  —  and  he  rode  away.  Then, 
after  five  years  of  marriage  and  two  of 
acute  invalidism,  thus  she  wrote  Francis 
Hume:  — 


I  SEND  this  to  the  Boston  post-office 
in  the  hope  of  finding  you.  My  aunt 
thinks  she  saw  you  in  the  street  the 
other  day ;  but  I  did  not  need  that  to  tell 
me  you  were  here.  I  have  guessed  it  for 
a  long  time.  I  have  almost  felt  you  knew 
how  I  suffer.  I  am  asking  an  impossi 
ble  service.  Captain  Morton  is  abroad, 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS    YOUTH 

and  he  refuses  to  come  home.  I  am 
dying,  and  he  will  not  believe  it.  I  have 
written  him  and  cabled  him ;  but  I  have 
said  I  was  dying  for  the  last  three  years. 
Now  it  is  true.  Will  you  go  over  there 
and  see  him  ?  Make  him  believe  it. 
Make  him  come  to  me.  I  do  not  know 
how — but  make  him.  His  bankers  are 
Baring  Bros.  Perhaps  they  can  tell  you 
where  he  is. 


DEAR  LADY,— I  start  to-night.    It 
r  ,  Hume 

was  generous  of  you   to  ask  me.   to  zoc 

He  Shall  Come.  Montr ose 


BUT  Captain  Morton  was  not  to  be 
found,  either  in  England  or  on  the 
Continent ;  and  so  there  was  much  delay 
which  must  have  tried  the  soul  of  the 
messenger  beyond  endurance.  Through 
one  of  the  foolish  ironies  of  life,  the 
captain  ("  rather  fat,"  six  years  before !) 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

had  decided,  in  a  futile  blindness  to  his 
own  limitations,  to  join  an  exploring  party 
to  the  interior  of  Abyssinia.  He  had 
always  a  childish  vanity  ;  perhaps  that 
led  him  to  ignore  all  the  habits  of  his 
luxurious  past  and  seek  healthier  living 
through  the  means  he  had  despised. 
Thus  to  nourish  himself  for  more  vices  ! 
So  does  the  bon  vivant  recuperate  at 
Spas. 

Thither,  as  soon  as  Francis  Hume 
could  get  upon  his  track,  he  followed 
him,  through  danger  and  delay,  through 
wilderness  and  night.  The  difficulties  of 
the  journey  were  a  thousandfold  enhanced 
by  his  ignorance  of  any  definite  route ; 
and  he  made  many  a  maddening  detour 
and  experienced  tragic  loss  in  the  treach 
ery  of  guides.  This,  at  least,  is  apparent 
from  some  crumpled  notes  of  travel  found 
among  his  possessions.  At  length,  sud 
denly,  dramatically,  he  came  upon  his 
man.  What  arguments  he  used,  no  one 
can  say.  Perhaps  Morton  had  grown 
136 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

sick  of  his  fool's  errand,  perhaps  his 
heart  was  really  touched,  at  last  ;  but  he 
did  turn  about  and  make  all  due  speed  to 
America.  Francis  accompanied  him  only 
to  the  fastest  steamer  route ;  and  then 
dropped  off  to  take  another  boat  home. 
His  notes  keep  rigid  silence  concerning 
the  captain.  Did  he  hate  him  to  the 
last,  or  had  hatred,  like  other  spawn  of 
evil,  sunk,  for  him,  in  the  unplumbed 
depths  of  larger  seas  ?  Captain  Morton 
came  home  and  found  his  wife  still  living. 
She  died  within  a  week,  and  there  is  a 
strange  contradiction  in  her  end.  The 
nurse  who  was  with  her  says  that  she 
moaned  for  him,  like  a  child,  through  all 
those  dreary  days ;  and  yet  when  he  came 
into  the  room  she  looked  at  him,  turned 
her  face  to  the  wall,  and  would  not  speak. 
It  seemed  almost  as  if  she  had  held  her 
self  within  a  bond  she  loathed,  and  as  if 
death  had  really  freed  her. 

Francis  returned  to  Boston  on  his  slow- 
sailing  boat.     They  were  coming  up  the 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

harbor  in  the  flush  of  twilight,  and  the 
State-house  dome  stood  like  a  golden 
beehive  against  the  sky.  He  had  kept 
very  much  to  himself,  said  one  of  the 
passengers  who  was  strongly  drawn  to 
him,  and  now  he  stood  by  the  rail,  not 
looking  forward  with  the  seeking  glance 
of  those  whose  voyage  is  done,  but  mus 
ingly  into  the  sea.  A  little  sailboat  had 
been  keeping  alongside.  Two  men  were 
in  it,  and  they  were  plainly  drunk.  They 
had  a  little  rough  dog,  and  they  were 
teasing  him.  The  passengers  looked  on 
with  indignant  protest.  One  or  two 
called  out ;  but  the  men  swore  back  and 
bullied  him  the  more.  Their  last  pleas 
antry  was  to  hold  him  over  the  side  with 
a  feint  of  dropping  him  ;  and  suddenly, 
in  an  access  of  cruelty,  they  called  out 
that  he  should  swim  for  it.  And  then 
they  dropped  him.  Francis  Hume  had 
not  followed  the  entire  occurrence;  but 
the  passenger  who  told  it  happened  to 
glance  at  him  at  the  moment  when  the 
138 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

dog  was  thrown  overboard.  That  he 
saw.  She  says  he  glowed  at  once  with 
pure  anger.  His  face  lighted  and  flamed  ; 
and  two  seconds  after  the  dog  went  down, 
Francis  Hume  sprang  after  him.  There 
was  an  outcry  on  the  instant.  A  boat 
was  lowered,  but  some  strange  clumsiness 
of  execution  seemed  to  overshadow  the 
whole  thing  ;  so  that  Hume  had  to  keep 
himself  afloat  for  what  seemed  a  long 
time.  In  reality,  she  supposes,  it  was 
minutes.  That  was  nothing.  Miles  of 
swimming  were  nothing  to  a  man  of  his 
training;  but  when  the  boat  reached 
him,  he  threw  the  dog  into  it  and  himself 
slipped  away.  That  was  all.  The  event 
is  confused  in  the  minds  of  everybody 
present,  and  no  one  can  wholly  account 
for  it.  It  seemed  fatality.  He  simply 
went  down,  and  his  body  was  not  recov 
ered.  The  men  in  the  sailboat,  shocked 
into  soberness,  put  about,  and  left  the 
steamer  in  all  possible  haste  ;  and  the 
passenger  who  told  me  the  story  dried 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

the  little  dog  in  her  shawl  and  promised 
him  a  home.  But  of  this  thing  every  one 
is  convinced.  Francis  Hume  must  have 
gone  willingly  to  his  death,  but  he  did 
not  choose  it.  The  sailors  of  the  rescu 
ing  boat  say  that  his  face  showed  a 
strange  bewilderment,  but  no  refusal  of 
their  efforts ;  he  did  not  mean  to  drown. 
There  must  have  been,  said  the  ship's 
doctor,  some  lesion  of  the  heart. 

Much  as  I  know  of  the  reality  of  his  life 
(and  it  ended  not  so  long  ago),  it  never 
seems  to  me  to  belong  to  this  actual 
world,  this  "city  by  the  sea."  For  me, 
its  mirror  lies,  strangely  enough,  in  an 
other  life  of  noble  ends  and  uncompleted 
action  :  Beauchamp's  Career.  There  is 
your  only  parallel,  even  to  the  splendid 
futility  of  its  close.  Read  this  from 
Meredith's  novel,  which  is,  after  all,  no 
thing  less  than  vivid  biography,  and  fit  it 
to  the  end  of  Francis  Hume. 

"  An  old  man  volunteered  the  informa 
tion.  '  That 's  the  boy.  That  boy  was 
140 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

in  his  father's  boat  out  there,  with  two 
of  his  brothers,  larking  ;  and  he  and  an 
other,  older  than  him,  fell  overboard  ;  and 
just  then  Commander  Beauchamp  was 
rowing  by,  and  I  saw  him  from  off  here, 
where  I  stood,  jump  up  and  dive,  and  he 
swam  to  his  boat  with  one  of  them,  and 
got  him  in  safe  :  that  boy ;  and  he  dived 
again  after  the  other,  and  was  down  a 
long  time.  Either  he  burst  a  vessel  or 
he  got  cramp,  for  he  'd  been  rowing  him 
self  from  the  schooner  grounded  down 
at  the  river-mouth,  and  must  have  been 
hot  when  he  jumped  in ;  either  way,  he 
fetched  the  second  up,  and  sank  with 
him.  Down  he  went.' 

"  A  fisherman  said  :  .  .  .  '  Do  you 
hear  that  voice  thundering  ?  That  's 
the  great  Lord  Romfrey.  He's  been 
directing  the  dragging  since  five  o'  the 
evening,  and  will  till  he  drops  or  drowns, 
or  up  comes  the  body.' 

"  '  O  God,  let  's  find  the  body  ! '  the 
woman  with  the  little  boy  called  out. 
141 


THE   DAY   OF   HIS   YOUTH 

"'.  .  .  My  lord  !  my  lord ! '  sobbed  the 
woman,  and  dropped  on  her  knees. 

"  *  What 's  this  ? '  the  earl  said,  drawing 
his  hand  away  from  the  woman's  clutch 
at  it. 

"  '  She  's  the  mother,  my  lord,'  several 
explained  to  him. 

"  '  Mother  of  what  ? ' 

" '  My  boy,'  the  woman  cried,  and 
dragged  the  urchin  to  Lord  Romfrey's 
feet,  cleaning  her  boy's  face  with  her 
apron. 

" '  It  's  the  boy  Commander  Beau- 
champ  drowned  to  save,'  said  a  man. 

"  All  the  lights  of  the  ring  were  turned 
on  the  head  of  the  boy.  .  .  .  The  boy 
struck  out  both  arms  to  get  his  fists 
against  his  eyelids. 

"  This  is  what  we  have  in  exchange  for 
Beauchamp. 

"  It  was  not  uttered,  but  it  was  visible 

in  the  blank  stare  at  one  another  of  the 

two   men   who   loved    Beauchamp,  after 

they  had  examined  the  insignificant  bit  of 

142 


THE   DAY  OF   HIS   YOUTH 

mud-bank  life  remaining  in  this  world  in 
the  place  of  him." 


BUT  those  of  us  who  loved  Francis 
Hume  do  not  ask  to  find  his  body, 
even  for  tender  burial.      We  only  pray 
that  in  some  bright  star-passage  we  may 
be  fortunate,  and  one  day  see  his  soul. 
143 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $I.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


ill      fi     1939 


JUL    6 


LD  21-20m-5,  '39  (9269s) 


YB  74238 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


